OTHER  BOOKS  BY  THIS  AUTHOR  ARE: 

THE  PHILIPPINES  AND  FILIPINOS 

BIOGRAPHY   OF   GENERAL   BEADLE 

THE  WOMAN  WITH  A  STONE  HEART 

BIOGRAPHY   OF  SENATOR  KITTREDGE 

WHO'S  WHO  IN  SOUTH  DAKOTA,  VOL.  I. 

WHO'S  WHO  IN  SOUTH  DAKOTA,  VOL.  II. 

HISTORY  AND  GEOGRAPHY  OF  THE  PHILIPPINE  ISLANDS 


LITERATURE     OF     SOUTH     DAKOTA 


By  O.  W.  COURSEY 


Published   by 

THE  EDUCATOR  SUPPLY  COMPANY 
Mitchell,  South  Dakota 


Copyrighted 

1916 

By  0.  W.  Coursey 
(All  rights  reserved.) 


Dedicated  to 
MY  THREE  SONS 


TOffiiam 

May  you  often  go  into  the  Library,  and  there, 
with  Mr.  Longfellow: 

"Read  from  some  humble  poet 

Whose  songs  gush  from  his  heart 
As  showers  from  the  clouds  of  summer, 

Or  tears  from  the  eyelids  start. 
Such  songs  have  power  to  quiet 

The  restless  pulse  of  care, 
And  come  like  the  benediction 

That  follows  after  prayer." 


M168569 


PREFACE 

The  History  of  South  Dakota  has  been  written, 
at  various  times,  during  the  past  twenty  years, 
separately,  by  Armstrong,  Robinson,  Kerr, 
Bachelder,  Foster,  Ransom,  Kingsbury  and  Smith; 
the  Civics,  by  Smith  and  Young,  Ross,  Johnson,  and 
Ransom;  the  Geology,  by  Todd,  O'Harra,  and 
Perisho;  the  Geography,  by  Beadle,  Perisho 
and  Visher;  a  History,  by  titles,  of  the  published 
books  of  the  state  has  been  made  by  Robinson 
in  Historical  Reports,  and  a  similar  list  has 
been  compiled  by  Kerr.  But  the  Literature, 
proper,  of  the  state  has  never  been  written.  The 
nearest  approach  to  it  is  a  book  of  "Dakota  Rhymes," 
compiled  by  Wenzlaff  and  Burleigh;  but,  as  sug- 
gested by  the  title,  their  book  contains  verse  only, 
while,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  much  of  our  best  literature 
and  many  of  our  ablest  writers  are  found  wholly  in 
the  field  of  prose.  However,  they  deserve  great 
credit  for  collecting  the  material  for  their  book, 
otherwise  many  of  our  best  poetical  productions 
might  have  been  lost  forever. 

The  compilation  of  this  book  has  necessitated 
hundreds  of  written  communications  and  thousands 
of  miles  of  travel.  It  covers  a  period  of  thirty-five 
years,  and  it  took  eleven  years  to  collect  it.  In  the 
First  Edition  of  a  work  of  this  kind,  there  will,  of 
necessity,  be  errors  of  ommission  and  errors  of  com- 
mission; however,  patience  and  tolerance  are  in- 
voked. The  next  Edition  will  be  perfected,  as  far 
as  possible. 


Many  of  our  pioneer  writers  are  dead;  others 
have  scattered  across  the  continent;  few  remain. 
To  collect  their  photographs,  their  biographies  and 
their  literary  productions ;  and  then  to  classify  this 
material  and  decide  what  is  really  worth  preserving 
as  Literature — for  Literature,  proper,  presupposes 
merit — has  entailed  an  amount  of  work  that  the 
reader  of  this  volume  can  never  know.  Over  2,000 
poems  were  read  and  rejected,  in  addition  to  those 
that  have  been  herein  preserved.  About  100 
speeches,  covering  a  great  variety  of  subjects,  were 
collected  from  old  newspaper  files  and  other 
sources.  These  were  read  and  carefully  sifted  in 
selecting  the  material  for  the  last  chapter  of  the 
book.  What  has  been  kept  herein  of  both  poetry  and 
prose  has  been  retained  to  show  the  author's  style 
or  else  because  it  seemed  to  have  some  special  value. 

However,  if  the  book,  itself,  merits  considera- 
tion at  the  hands  of  the  public,  my  efforts  will  not 
have  been  in  vain.  To  all  those  who  assisted  me,  I 
hereby  acknowledge  my  profoundest  gratitude;  but 
more  especially  to  Mrs.  J.  W.  McCarter,  of  Bowdle ; 
Mrs.  Helen  D.  Potter,  of  Canning;  Miss  Edla 
Lawrson,  City  Librarian  of  Mitchell;  Mrs.  Demah 
Flavin,  of  Sturgis;  Professor  Clyde  Tull,  Instructor 
in  English  at  Dakota  Wesleyan  University,  and  Dr. 
George  H.  Durand,  Instructor  in  English  at  Yankton 
College.  — 0.  W.  Coursey. 


Note. — For  a  list  of  South  Dakota  authors'  books, 
still  in  print,  see  Catalog  of  Publications  in  the  back  part  of 
this  book. 


CONTENTS 

Chapter  I. 

POETS  AND  POETRY 13 

Brown,  Mortimer  Crane 14 

Bagstad,  Anna  E 30 

Biggar,  H.  Howard 36 

Carr,  Mrs.  Daisy   42 

Clark,  Badger    50 

Clover,  Sam  T 58 

Cearnach,  Conal    (Mary  Martin) 64 

Carr,  Robert  V 70 

Chamberlain,   Will    80 

Dickinson,  Mrs.  Almira  J 96 

Garland,  Hamlin 104 

Hanson,  Joseph  Mills 112 

Holmes,  Charles  E 126 

Lawton,   Charles   Bracy    138 

Rivola,  Mrs.  Flora 150 

Robinson,  Doane   160 

Tatro,  Mrs.  May 170 

Van  Dalsem,  Henry  A 186 

Wells,   Rollin  J 202 

Wenzlaff,  Gustav  G 218 

Miscellaneous                                                                      .  227 


(Contents    Continued.) 

Chapter  II. 

PROSE  WRITERS 245 

Novelists   245 

Historians   255 

Biographers    258 

Journalists 259 

Political 260 

Religious   260 

Educational     261 

Descriptive    261 

General    262 

Scientific  Writers   264 

Geology   265 

Music    (Instrumental)    266 

Music  (Vocal)    268 

Money 268 

Religion  268 

Text  Book  Authors 269 

Agriculture 269 

Bookkeeping 270 

Chemistry   270 

Civics     270 

Economics  271 

Geography    271 

German    272 

Law    272 

Logic    272 

Mathematics     272 

Medicine    273 

Pedagogy  • 273 

Psychology   276 

Spelling 277 

Typewriting    277 

Compilers    277 

Critiques    278 


(Contents   Continued.) 

Chapter  III. 

ORATORS  AND  ORATORY 281 

Branson,  O.  L 282 

Conklin,  Gen.  S.  J 294 

Crawford,  Sen.  Coe  1 297 

Egan,  George  W 308 

Harmon,  Prof.  T.  A 320 

Kemple,  Prof.  R.  L 328 

McFarland,  James  G 334 

Perisho,  Dr.  E.  C 339 

Sterling,  William  B 346 

COMPLETE  ALPHABETICAL  INDEX 352 

CATALOG  OF  S.  DAK.  AUTHORS'  PUBLICATIONS 
EDUCATOR  SUPPLY  COMPANY'S  PUBLICATIONS 


IN  A  LIBRARY 

Here  ages  wait  to  speak  and  dream  with  thee 
Of  ancient  pomp  and  pride  forever  gone, 

And  harps  are  hung,  whose  silver  strings  can  free 
The  souls  of  those  who  sang  at  song's  first  dawn. 

Here  paths  await  the  pressure  of  thy  feet, 
And  seas  of  thought  the  shadow  of  thy  sail, 

Whereon  thy  distant  voyaging  may  meet 

Thought's  farthest  night  where  stars  and  pilot  fail. 

Here  wait  the  guides  of  ages  for  thy  call; 

With  Dante,  walk  the  white  abyss  of  hell; 
With  Shakespeare,  watch  in  Macbeth's  banquet  hall; 

With  Milton,  hear  the  voice  of  Gabriel. 

Here  may  the  burdens  of  thy  daily  life, 

As  at  a  minster  gate,  be  laid  aside; 
Thy  soul  be  shut  from  sounds  of  human  strife, 

Thy  mind  and  heart  be  charmed  and  beautified. 
Arthur  Wallace  Peach. 


CHAPTER  I 

POETS  AND  POETRY 

The  Territory  of  Dakota  was  not  formally  or- 
ganized until  1861.  It  was  eleven  years  later  before 
the  first  railroad  entered  the  region.  A  lack  of  rail- 
roads, and  the  fact  that  numerous  bands  of  hostile 
Indians  still  roamed  the  plains,  made  development 
slow.  The  Territory  was  divided  into  North  and 
South  Dakota  and  statehood  established  in  1889. 

Inasmuch  as  the  early  pioneers  were  fraught 
with  excessive  hardships,  early  songs  of  the  Dakota 
plains  are  not  numerous ;  yet,  during  this  formative 
period,  a  few  writers  gained  recognition.  The 
stronger  part  of  our  literature  has,  however,  been 
produced  during  statehood. 

For  so  young  a  state,  South  Dakota  has  pro- 
duced an  abnormally  large  number  of  literary  people. 
Historically,  its  authors  divide  themselves  naturally 
into  two  classes,  to-wit :  territorial  writers  and  state- 
hood writers.  Then  these  two  classes  divide  them- 
selves into  poets  and  prose  writers.  But  this  his- 
torical division  could  not  be  maintained  in  the  prep- 
aration of  this  volume,  because  the  works  of 
several  of  our  best  territorial  writers  lap  over  into 
our  statehood.  Then,  too,  many  of  them  might  very 
properly  be  classified  either  as  poets  or  as  prose 
writers,  for  they  have  excelled  in  both  fields  of  lit- 
erary endeavor. 


Mortimer  Crane  Brown 

Biographical — .born,  Westmoreland,  N.  Y.,  September  11, 
1857.  Educated  in  the  rural  schools  of  New  York  and  Iowa. 
Went  to  Iowa  in  1867.  Came  to  Dakota  in  1879.  Settled  in 
Lincoln  county.  Married  Miss  Elma  Cleveland,  of  Water- 
loo, Iowa,  September  18,  1884.  Father  of  three  children — 
one  girl  and  two  boys.  Farmed  and  taught  school  until  1892. 
Sold  out;  bought  White  Lake  Wave,  a  weekly  newspaper  at 
White  Lake,  this  state.  Sold  out  in  1902.  Moved  to  Sioux 
Falls.  Associated  with  the  Commercial  News,  a  monthly 
trade  journal,  for  one  year.  Identified  with  Sioux  Falls  Daily 
Press,  1903-08.  Purchased  Spearfish  Enterprise.  Editor  of 
same  to  date. 


MORTIMER  CRANE  BROWN 

As  a  poet,  Mortimer  Crane  Brown  takes  high 
rank  among  the  writers  of  our  state.  He  belongs 
to  both  literary  epochs — territorial  and  state— for 
his  pen  has  been  active  for  a  third  of  a  century,  and 
his  new  poems  are  continually  being  published  and 
republished  by  the  leading  papers  of  the  West. 

The  meter  of  his  verse  is  most  perfect,  and  his 
prairie  songs  possess  a  music  that  is  delightful.  His 
vocabulary  is  broad ;  and,  with  singular  ease,  he  in- 
variably selects  from  it  the  right  word  with  which 
to  complete  his  rhymes. 

Although  Brown's  musings  cover  a  wide  range 
of  thought  and  varying  sentiment,  he  is,  neverthe- 
less, first  of  all,  a  descriptive  poet.  The  coloring  of 
his  description  is  very  artistic,  and  he  weaves  into 
it  a  lofty  sentiment  that  is  inspirational  in  the  ex- 
treme. What  could  be  prettier  as  descriptive  poetry 
than  his  two  following  selections? 

SYLVAN  LAKE 

Calm,  placid  mirror  of  the  skies, 

Safe  guarded  by  thy  rocky  walls, 
In  tranquil  sleep  thy  bosom  lies, 

Or,  sighing,  gently  heaves  and  falls. 

The  stern  gray  rocks  that  grandly  lift 

Their  furrowed  faces  high  in  air 
To  where  the  sun-kissed  vapors  drift, 

Smile  down  upon  thee,  sleeping  there. 


16  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

The  tall,  dark  pines,  thy  henchmen  good, 
Close  to  thy  dancing  ripples  press, 

Or  bow  their  heads  in  pensive  mood 
To  whisper  of  thy  loveliness. 

Fair  Sylvan  Lake!     No  tempests  sweep 
Across  thy  doubly-guarded  breast; 

In  calm  content  thy  beauties  sleep, 
A  haven  of  untrammeled  rest. 


BEAUTIFUL  BIG  STONE 

When  from  the  burdens  and  toil  of  the  day 

Mortals,  aweary,  would  wander  away, 
Shake  from  their  spirits  the  mantle  of  care, 

Seeking  for  freedom,  as  birds  in  the  air, 
Gladly  they  turn  to  thy  restful  retreat, 

Where  sister  states  in  sweet  unity  meet, 
Bathe  in  thy  waters  and  float  on  thy  breast, 

Beautiful  Big  Stone,  the  Gem  of  the  West! 

Light  on  thy  bosom  the  water-fowl  glides-, 

Deep  in  thy  waters  the  finny  shoal  hides, 
Tempting  the  sportsman  his  skill  to  employ, 

Crowning  each  day  with  its  measure  of  joy; 
Softly  re-echo  from  forest  and  shore 

Puff  of  the  steamer  and  plash  of  the  oar, 
Bearing  glad  hearts  on  a  pleasure-bound  quest — 

Beautiful  Big  Stone,  the  Gem  of  the  West! 

Here  gentle  Nature  communes  with  the  soul, 

Murmuring  low  in  the  billows  that  roll, 
Singing  sweet  songs  in  the  whispering  trees, 

Lisp  of  the  ripple  and  sigh  of  the  breeze, 
Smoothing  the  wrinkle  and  bringing  again 

Sunshine  and  youth  to  the  spirits  of  men; 
All  who  are  weary  thou  givest  them  rest, 

Beautiful  Big  Stone,  the  Gem  of  the  West! 


POETS  AND- POETRY  17 

Poets  differ  as  to  the  season  of  the  year  in  which 
they  sing.  Some  awaken  with  the  hum  of  the  bees 
and  confine  themselves  to  spring-time  melodies. 
Others  find  their  inspiration  in  the  green  hues  of 
June.  A  few  of  them  chant  only  in  harvest  time. 
Many  begin  to  sing  when  "The  melancholy  days 
have  come."  Occasionally  one  of  them  finds  his 
only  enchantment  in  the  falling  of  the  soft,  downy 
snow-flakes  of  mid-winter. 

From  this  standpoint,  Brown  is  a  noted  excep- 
tion. He  finds  poetic  cheer  from  January  on  through- 
out the  seasons  to  January  again.  Equally  at  home 
in  all  seasons  of  the  year,  his  inspiration  seems  to  be 
continuous.  The  various  moods  of  seasonable  poets 
are  all  combined  in  him.  His  is  the  heart  universal ; 
his,  the  poetic  genius  complete. 

One's  viewpoint  of  Brown  becomes  more  com- 
prehensive when  he  clusters  together  the  poet's 
several  selections  that  pertain  to  the  seasons  of  the 
year,  arranges  them  in  a  logical  sequence,  and  then 
reviews  them  collectively. 


FARMIN'  IN  DAKOTA 

When  old  Winter  gets  his  back  broke  an'  begins  ter  lose  his 

grip, 
An'  the  north  end  of  airth's  axle  toward  the  sun  begins  ter 

tip; 
When  the  butter-ducks  go  whizzin'  to  their  summer  feedin' 

grounds, 
An'  the  medder-lark  salutes  us  with  the  old  familiar  sounds; 


18  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

When  the  grass  begins  ter  nestle  at  the  news  the  breezes 

bring, 

An'  the  prairie  all  around  us  wakens  at  the  touch  o'  Spring, 
O,  it's  then  I  like  ter  hustle,  when  the  day  begins  ter  crack, 
An*  go  farmin'  in  Dakota — when  the  birds  come  back. 

In  the  hush  of  airly  mornin',  when  the  stars  are  still  in  sight, 
An'  the  fleecy  mists  sail  upward  in  the  dim  uncertain  light, 
Every  sound  that  breaks  the  quiet  seems  ter  let  a  feller  know 
That  the  seed-time  is  a-comin'  an'  it's  time  ter  make  things 

go. 
The  honk  o'  north-bound  ganders  comes  a-floatin'  from  the 

blue, 

An'  the  grouse  fill  in  the  chorus  v/ith  a  lusty  "bim-bum-boo!" 
An*  the  bullfrogs  tease  a  feller  with  their  everlastin'  clack, 
To  go  farmin'  in  Dakota — when  the  birds  come  back. 


When  the  pussies  on  the  willers  er  a-swellin'  fit  ter  bust, 
An'  th'  win'  flowers  poke  their  bunnits  through  the  hillock's 

dingy  crust; 

When  the  smell  o'  burnin'  strawstacks  is  a-floatin'  in  the  air, 
An'  the  prairie  fire  its  beacons  is  a-lightin'  everywhere; 
Then  the  instinct  prods  a  feller  ter  prepare  for  time  o'  need, 
An*  he  longs  ter  tear  the  ground  up  an'  fling  wide  the  golden 

seed; 
So  he  hooks  his  team  tergether,  o'er  his  shoulder  slings  a 

sack, 
An'  goes  farmin'  in  Dakota — when  the  birds  come  back. 

In  the  winter  time  a  feller  kinder  seems  ter  lose  his  hold, 
An'  his  blood  gits  thick  an'  sluggish,  till  he  'lows  he's  gettin' 

old. 
He'll  poke  round  among  his  cattle,  from  the  haystack  to  the 

barn, 
With   a   feelin'   that   he'd    kinder   like   ter   jump   the   whole 

consarn; 


POETS  AND  POETRY  19 

But  when  his  lazy  nostrils  git  a  sniff  o'  comin'  spring, 

An'  his  eyes  light  on  the  shadder  of  a  wild  goose  on  the 

wing, 
0,   it  sets   his  blood  a-prancin',   an' ,  he   longs   ter  leave   his 

shack 
An'  go  farmin'  in  Dakota — when  the  birds  come  back. 

O,  the  independent  feelin'  every  pioneer  hez  known, 

When  he  sets  his  plow  a-diggin'  in  the  ground  that's  all  his 

own! 
'Tis  the  way  ter  Nature's  store-house,  all  her  treasures  ter 

unfold, 
An'  the  man  that  keeps  it  punchin'  never  fails  ter  git  the 

gold; 

So  while  many  er  a-kickin'  at  the  way  the  world  is  run, 
I'll  plod  onward  in  the  furrow,  through  the  shadder  an'  the 

sun, 
Quite  content  ter  trust  the  Giver,  at  whose  hand  we  never 

lack, 
An'  keep  farmin'  in  Dakota — when  the  birds  come  back. 


SPRING 

Oh  Spring!  Ethereal  Spring! 

Whose  praise  all  poets  sing. 
To  thee  I  wake  the  tuneful  lyre 

And  smite  its  chords  till  I  perspire 
As  wallowing  through  thy  wealth  of  mire, 

I  drink  thy  beauty  in, 
While  earth  reviving  drops  descend 

And  drench  me  to  the  skin. 

Best  season  of  the  year. 
When  heaven  seems  ever  near. 
When  geese  and  poets  plume  their  wings, 
And  soar  above  terrestrial  things, 


20  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

When  the  small  boy  his  mud  ball  flings, 

Against  my  Sunday  coat, 
When  navigation  is  played  out, 

Unless  you  own  a  boat. 

***** 

Sweet  time  of  bud  and  bloom, 

Dispelling  all  our  gloom. 
When  Spring  begins  her  gentle  reign, 

When  birds  are  in  the  trees  again, 
And  back  to  the  schoolhouse  in  the  lane 

The  schoolma'am  comes,  God  bless  her! 
And  the  glib-tongued  tree  man  takes  you  in 

And  likewise  the  assessor. 


APRIL 

The  robins  have  come  back  again, 

The  meadow-larks  are  here, 
And  bashful  little  wind-flowers 

In  every  nook  appear. 
The  frogs  have  been  thawed  out  three  times, 

They  now  are  "in  the  swim," 
And  wake  the  evening  echoes 

With  their  old  accustomed  vim. 

The  sun  shines  bright  at  nine  o'clock, 

High  winds  prevail  at  noon, 
Then  on  the  roof  the  raindrops  play 

Ere  night,  a  merry  tune. 
From  out  the  dingy  last  year's  growth 

Young  grass  begins  to  peep, 
And  soon  the  prairies'  emerald  slopes 

Will  swarm  with  frisking  sheep. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  21 

There's  health  and  strength  and  deep  content 

In  every  breath  we  draw. 
Fresh  life  and  vigor  come  with  spring, 

For  this  is  nature's  law. 
Though  ears  and  toes  have  long  been  cold, 

Yet  now  with  joy  we  sing: 
"  'Tis  worth  the  whole  of  winter  time 

To  get  a  taste  of  spring." 


MAY 

Month  of  flowers!  We  smile  to  see 
Warmth  and  light  return  with  thee; 
Trees  that  leafless  were  and  sere, 
Now  in  emerald  robes  appear; 
Birds  we  missed  the  winter  long, 
Thrill  thy  praise  in  joyous  song. 
From  the  carpet  of  the  grass 
Nodding  at  us  as  we  pass, 
Flowers  we  oft  have  known  before, 
Smile  upon  us  as  of  yore. 
Overhead  the  skies  are  blue 
E'en  as  when  the  earth  was  new; 
White  above  the  swaying  tree 
Fleecy  clouds  float  lazily; 
All  things  cold  and  dead  appear 
Quickened,  as  thy  steps  draw  near, 
From  the  dullness  of  the  tomb 
Into  sudden  life  and  bloom. 
And  into  the  hearts  of  men 
Creeps  the  warmth  of  youth  again; 
Calling  back  the  blossoms  fair 
Crowded  out  by  toil  and  care. 
All  the  joys  of  other  years, 
Shrouded  by  a  mist  of  tears 
Brightly  o'er  our  memories  play 
At  the  coming  of  the  May. 


22  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 


AFTER  HARVEST 

The  binder  now  is  silent 

And  the  trim  stacks  dot  the  plain, 
The  thresher,  through  the  hazy  air, 

Drones  forth  a  soft  refrain; 
Like  golden  sands  the  winnowed  wheat 

O'erleaps  the  measure's  rim, 
While  stack-bound  crickets  murmur  sweet 

To  swell  the  harvest  hymn. 

.Upon  the  slowly  ripening  grass 

The  sleepy  cattle  feed, 
While  lazy  zephyrs  wander  past 

To  stir  the  tumble-weed. 
Among  the  glinting  stubble  spears 

The  skulking  chickens  run, 
Or — where  no  hunters  rouse  their  fears — 

Lie  basking  in  the  sun. 

Content  and  plenty  seem  to  brood 

O'er  hamlet,  field  and  farm; 
Brown  autumn,  with  her  stores  of  food 

Imparts  an  added  charm. 
And  as  our  garners  overflow 

Our  hearts  are  turned  above 
To  Him  who  sends  to  all  below 

Rich  tokens  of  His  love. 


ON  THE  HAY 

Oh,  very  far  back  in  the  pathway  of  life 

In  the  days  yet  untarnished  by  trouble  and  strife, 

There  are  scenes  that  shine  bright  in  my  memory  yet, 
There  are  pleasures  and  pains  I  never  forget. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  23 

I  remember  the  days  when  a  boy,  on  the  farm, 

When  all  things  were  touched  by  youth's  magical  charm, 

When  I  wandered  at  will  'neath  the  whispering  trees, 

And  at  pleasure  communed  with  the  birds  and  the  bees. 

Yet  e'en  in  those  bright  days  some  sorrows  I  knew, 

Some  dark  tints  to  soften  life's  radiant  hue; 
Some  hope  unfulfilled,  some  desire  unattained, 

Oft  would  darken  my  eyes  to  the  joys  that  remained, 
And  then,  when  the  world  seemed  to  mock  at  my  grief, 

To  seclusion  I  turned  in  my  quest  for  relief, 
From  the  source  of  my  sorrow  stole  softly  away, 

To  crawl  up  in  the  barn  and  lie  down  on  the  hay. 

There,  safe  from  derision,  unseen  and  unheard, 

New  thoughts  and  ambitions  my  youthful  heart  stirred, 
As  prone  'neath  the  long,  sagging  rafters  I  lay 

And  drank  in  the  scent  of  the  fresh-garnered  hay, 
While  through  the  wide  door  came  the  stir  of  the  leaves, 

And  the  swallows'  quick  notes  as  they  toiled  'neath  the 

eaves, 
A  balm  from  above  seemed  to  fall  on  my  heart, 

And  a  feeling  of  infinite  peace  to  impart. 

And  now,  'mid  the  toils  and  temptations  of  life, 

When  every  new  day  with  its  danger  is  rife, 
When  with  each  seeming  pleasure  some  sorrow  is  found, 

And  the  snares  of  the  spoiler  lie  thickly  around, 
My  spirit  turns  backward  in  memory  sweet 

To  those  blessed  hours  spent  in  peaceful  retreat; 
And  I  long  from  earth's  battles  to  scurry  away, 

Crawl  up  in  the  barn  and  lie  down  on  the  hay. 


24  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

AUTUMN  DREAMS 

When  the  maples  turn  to  crimson 

'Neath  the  fingers  of  the  frost, 
When  the  gardens  and  the  meadows 

All  their  summer  bloom  have  lost, 
When  from  off  the  lowland  marshes 

Blue,  etherel  vapors  rise, 
And  a  dreamy  haze  is  flooding, 

Through  the  mellow,  sunlit  skies, 

Then  I  know  the  year  is  dying, 

Soon  the  summer  will  be  dead; 
I  can  trace  it  in  the  flying 

Of  the  black  crows  overhead. 
I  can  hear  it  in  the  rustle 

Of  the  dead  leaves  as  I  pass, 
And  the  south  wind's  plaintive  sighing 

Through  the  dry  and  withered  grass. 

Oh,  'tis  then  I  love  to  wander, 

Wander  idly  and  alone; 
Listening  to  the  solemn  music 

Of  sweet  nature's   undertone; 
Rapt  in  thoughts  I  cannot  utter, 

Dreams  my  tongue  cannot  express, 
Dreams  that  match  the  autumn's  sadness 

In  their  longing  tenderness. 

Thoughts  of  friends  my  heart  hath  cherished 
In  the  summer  days  gone  by; 

Hopes  that  all  too  soon  must  perish, 
E'en  as  summer  blossoms  die. 

Luckless  plans  and  vain  ambitions, 
Stranded,  long  ere  summer's  prime, 

Buried,  as  will  be  the  flowers, 

'Neath  the  winter  snows  of  time. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  25 

Yet,  although  my  thoughts  are  sadder 

Than  in  summer's  wealth  of  bloom, 
'Tis  a  sadness  that  makes  better, 

And  is  not  akin  to  gloom. 
Oh,  the  human  heart  seems  purer, 

Much  of  earth's  defilement  lost, 
When  the  maple  turns  to  crimson 

'Neath  the  fingers  of  the  frost. 

SEPTEMBER 

Oh!  balmy  and  blue  are  the  skies  of  September 

And  cool  are  her  breezes  through  forest  and  dell. 
Her  calm,  mellow  days  are  a  thing  to  remember, 

All  nature  seems  wrapped  in  her  magical  spell. 
But  lose  not  the  thought  that  the  summer  is  ended, 

And  fast  on  its  footsteps  stern  winter  will  stride, 
For  in  dreamy  September  'tis  well  to  remember 

A  season  draws  nigh  for  which  all  must  provide. 

This  life  is  a  year,  with  its  various  seasons. 

Gay  youth  is  its  springtime,  its  summer  our  prime, 
While  softly  aslant  fall  sunbeams  of  autumn 

On  paths  that  slope  down  on  the  hillside  of  time; 
But  the  mildness  of  fall  cannot  linger  forever, 

The  boughs  will  be  stirred  with  a  frostier  breath. 
Oh!  heed  the  bright  days  as  they  hurry  us  onward, 

And  wisely  prepare  for  the  winter  of  death. 

OCTOBER 

The  woodland  is  ablaze 

With  the  glory  of  dying  leaves, 
And  over  the  sun-browned  ways 

Come  homeward  the  ripened  sheaves. 
The  amber  sunset  gates 

By  the  ruddy  orb  are  kissed, 
While  the  harvest  moon,  as  a  bride  who  waits, 

Beams  soft  through  the  rising  mist. 


26  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

O  saddened,  yet  sacred  days, 

When  the  harvest  of  life  is  done! 
How  sweet,  through  the  soft'ning  haze, 

Smiles  backward  the  sinking  sun! 
The  glory  of  days  well  spent 

Shines  forth  on  the  dying  leaves, 
As  the  chariot  of  God  is  sent 

To  garner  life's  ripened  sheaves. 

INDIAN  SUMMER 

November  brings  the  mellow  haze 
Of  smoky  Indian  summer  days, 

The  last  warm  throb  of  Nature's  heart 
Ere  Winter,  with  his  ice-tipped  dart, 

Cuts  short  the  life  of  bud  and  bloom 
And  weaves  his  ermine  o'er  her  tomb. 

Aslant,  yet  kind,  the  sunbeams  fall, 

In  vain  endeavor  to  recall 
The  rose's  smile,  the  wild  bird's  lay 

And  all  that  made  the  summer  day 
A  time  to  revel  and  rejoice 

In  sympathy  with  Nature's  voice.       • 

Above  the  brook  the  willows  lean 
To  drop  their  robes  of  faded  green 

And  watch  each  cast-off  vestment  float 
As  lightly  as  a  fairy  boat 

Out  to  the  far  and  unknown  sea 
That  symbols  our  eternity. 

The  squirrel  in  his  winter  den 

Feels  the  warm  touch  of  life  again, 

The  field-mouse  nestles  in  her  cell 

And  dreams  of  Spring's  enchanted  spell 

When  through  the  torpor  of  her  sleep 
A  wakening  voice  shall  softly  creep. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  27 

Glad  respite  from  a  tyrant's  sway, 

All  hail,  however  brief  thy  stay! 
And  when  the  last  bright  day  is  done 

And  wintry  clouds   obscure  the  sun 
Thy  smile  shall  still  remain  to  cheer — 

A  sweet  remembrance  through  the  year. 


FALL 

After  the  heat  of  Summer 

Come  the  cool,  sweet  days  of  Fall, 
When  field  and  wood  re-echo, 

With  the  gathering  wild-birds'  call; 
The  bloom  of  the  Spring  is  faded 

But  beauty  is  with  us  still 
For  purple  and  gold  and  crimson 

Blaze  forth  from  each  vale  and  hill. 

The  purple  of  smiling  asters, 

The  plumes  of  the  golden-rod, 
And  the  frost-touched  leaves  of  Autumn 

Seem  to  mirror  the  smiles  of  God; 
And  our  hearts  bow  down  in  homage 

To  Him  who  is  over  all, 
For  the  sense  of  His  love  vouchsafed  us 

In  the  beauties  of  the  Fall. 


WHEN    THE    SNOW    IS    ON    THE    PRAIRIE 

When   the   snow  is   on   the   prairie 

N'  the  drift  is  in  the  cut, 
An'  life  gets  a  trifle  dreary 

Joggin'  in  the  same  ole  rut, 
Nothin'  like  a  good  ole  fiddle 

Takes  the  wrinkles  out  o'  things. 
There's  the  chirp  o'  larks  an'  robins 

In  the  twitter  of  the  strings. 


28  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

When  the  whizzin',  roarin'  blizzard 

Is  a  shuttin'  out  the  day, 
An'  the  balmy  breath  o'  summer 

Seems  a  thousand  years  away, 
You  kin  start  the  eaves  a  drippin' 

With  the  tinklin'  of  'er  strings. 
You  kin  hear  the  water  bubblin' 

From  a  dozen  different  springs. 

Rub  the  bow  across  the  resin, 

Twist  the  pegs  an'  sound  your  A, 
There'll  be  bobolinks  a  clinkin' 

When  you  once  begin  ter  play. 
Bees'll  waller  in  the  clover, 

Blossoms  whisper  in  the  sun, 
All  the  world  a  runnin'  over 

With  the  sunshine  an'  the  fun. 

Git  the  gals  and  boys  together, 

Partners  all  for  a  quadrille: 
Cheeks  aglow  with  frosty  weather, 

Hearts  that  never  felt  a  chill, 
Youth  an'  music  never  weary — 

Though  they  meet  in  hall  or  hut — 
When  the  snow  is  on  the  prairie 

An'  the  drift  is  in  the  cut. 

"Sashy  by  an'  s'lute  yer  pardners, 
Sashy  back  an'  how  d'ye  do!" 

Everybody's  feelin'  funny 

An'  the  fiddle  feels  it  too. 

Out  o'  doors  the  storm  may  sputter, 
But  within  the  skies  are  bright, 

Pansies  peekin'  out,  an'  butter- 
Cups  a  bobbin'  in  the  light. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  29 

0,  the  joy  ov  healthful  pleasure! 

0,  the  trip  ov  tireless  feet! 
While  the  fiddle  fills  each  measure 

With  its  music  soft  and  sweet; 
Glints  ov  sun  the  shadows  vary, 

Though  from  out  the  world  we're  shut, 
When  the  snow  is  on  the  prairie 

An'  the  drift  is  in  the  cut. 


ANOTHER  CHANCE 

When  the  winter  closes  round  us 

And  the  skies  are  cold  and  gray, 
Oft'  a  sense  of  desolation 

Fills  the  spirit  with  dismay, 
But  when  earth  to  life  is  waking 

In  the  joy  of  springing  plants 
Nature,  kind,  indulgent  mother, 

Offers  us  another  chance. 

Oft'  we  toil  throughout  the  summer 

And  our  work  seems  all  in  vain, 
Autumn  brings  us  empty  garners 

When  we  hoped  for  golden  grain, 
And  the  world  seems  all  against  us 

As  the  winter  days  advance, 
Yet  we  know  the  spring  is  coming 

When  we'll  have  another  chance. 

Courage,  then,  be  ever  with  us, 

As  in  hope  we  labor  on, 
Looking  forward  to  the  harvest 

When  our  better  day  shall  dawn, 
Knowing  that,  although  our  castles 

Fall  before  Misfortune's  lance, 
When  the  Spring  in  beauty  wakens 

We  shall  have  another  chance. 


Anna   E.   Bagstad 

Biographical— Born  on  farm  near  Yankton,  Feb.  27,  1879. 
Parents,  pioneers.  They  came  to  Dakota  in  1867.  She  at- 
tended country  school,  and  Yankton  Academy.  Began  teach- 
ing when  quite  young.  Spent  1900-01,  Chicago,  doing  uni- 
versity work.  Taught,  Northland  college,  Ashland,  Wis., 
1901-02.  Next  year  attended  Yankton  college.  Was 
graduated  in  1903  from  the  department  of  elocution  and 
oratory,  and  won  the  state  and  inter-state  oratorical  contests, 
Took  B.  A.  degree,  Yankton,  1905.  Principal  Vermillion 
high  school,  1905-06.  Insturctor  history  and  German,  North- 
land college,  1906.  Went  abroad,  1908.  Toured  Europe. 
Spent  1910-11  Emerson  College  of  Oratory,  Boston.  Instructor 
Aberdeen,  S.  D.,  Normal,  three  years.  In  1915,  removed  to 
state  of  Oregon. 


ANNA  E.  BAGSTAD 

Miss  Bagstad  has  written  a  number  of  good 
poems  that  have  been  published  at  various  times. 
Among  these  are  "Greeting  and  Farewell, "  a  tribute 
to  Dr.  G.  W.  Nash ;  "Magic,"  "Bought  and  Paid  For," 
and  "Voltaire."  Her  place  in  the  literature  of  the 
state  will,  however,  rest  largely  on  two  poems, 
"What  is  Life,"  and  "A  Fragment;"  and  upon  her 
translation  from  the  German  of  "The  Sistine 
Chapel."  The  two  poems  and  the  first  two  stanzas 
of  the  translation  are  herein  given: 

WHAT  IS  LIFE 

A  poet  asked  the  question  of  a  rose, 

As  one  fair  day  drew  lingering  to  a  close. 

Breathing  the  incense  of  her  heart  above 

She  answered  blushing:  "Life — ah,  life  is  love!" 

A  songbird  from  his  deep  embowered  nest 
Sang  to  the  glories  of  the  purpling  west 

A  song  of  gladness,  pure,  without  alloy. 
The  poet  heard:  "This  life  is  only  joy." 

"And  what  say  ye?" — this  to  the  ants  that  low 

Beside  his  feet  on  busy  errands  go. 
A  thousand-voiced  reply  from  out  the  soil — 

And  myriads  caught  the  echo:  "Life  is  toil." 

Into  the  twilight  wood  the  poet  strayed 

And  found  within  the  solitude  a  maid; 
Waiting  a  skiff  approaching  o'er  the  stream, 

She  murmured:  "Life — oh,  happy,  happy  dream!" 


32  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Softly  the  darkness  settles,  and  on  high 

Myriads  of  stars  begem  the  dusky  sky. 
Faint  whispers  breathe  'twixt  heaven  and  earth  and  sea, 

"Life  is  an  everlasting  mystery." 

Now  to  the  hermit's  cave  the  wanderer  hied. 

He  to  the  question  wearily  replied, 
Sighing,  as  low  his  wavering  taper  burned: 

"Life  is  a  school  where  nothing  can  be  learned." 

The  penitent — the  midnight  long  since  sped — 
Upon  the  wayside  stones  reclined  his  head. 

"How  long,"  he  said,  "how  full  of  strife  appears 
The  pilgrimage  through  this  dim  vale  of  tears!" 

Celestial  artists  change  from  somber  gray 
To  rainbow  tints  the  curtains  of  the  day, 

Till  at  God's  bidding  these  are  upward  rolled 
And  mortals  view  the  morning's  court  of  gold. 

From  each  unfolding  bud  the  shadows  flee; 

Earth  echoes  with  a  living  melody, 
And  through  the  anthems  of  exulting  birds 

There  thrills  a  voice — the  poet  hears  the  words: 

"If  even  comes,  O  man,  to  find  thee  more 

Like  to  the  great  Ideal  than  before; 
If  thou  art  nobler  when  this  day  is  spent, 

Then  hast  thou  lived:  life  is  development." 


A  FRAGMENT 

Daylight  that  came  upon  the  hills  of  Rome — 
Looking  upon  the  city's  majesty 
And  on  the  country's  loveliness  without, — 
Saw  hanging,  pierced  and  bleeding  on  the  cross 


POETS  AND  POETRY  33 

A  dying  saint;  the  first  pale  sun-ray  smiled 

On  youthful  Julia's  face  where  agony 

Since  yesternoon  had  held  its  cruel  sway; 

Beamed  on  the  form  that  once  had  burned  with  life, 

And  burned  with  love  for  one  that  hung  before 

Upon  the  cross;  and  for  this  love  she  died. 

A  Roman  youth  returning  from  a  scene 
Of  nightly  revel,  wandering  o'er  the  hills 
To  cool  his  heated  brow — where  rested  still 
The  wild  voluptuary's  laurel  crown — 
Found  himself  face  to  face  with  her  that  hung 
Upon  the  cross.     No  more  her  countenance 
Bore  trace  of  pain.     The  spirit  as  it  rose 
To  him  she  loved  and  died  for,  left  a  look 
Of  triumph,  holiness  and  joy  and  peace. 
And  the  young  Roman  gazed  upon  the  face 
In  its  transfigured  beauty  till  there  rose 
Within  his  soul  a  high  and  holy  fear, 
Thoughts  of  unknown  and  of  eternal  things — 
And  underneath  the  pierced  and  bleeding  feet 
In  reverence  he  laid  his  withered  crown. 

0  holy  Truth,  the  morning  surely  comes 
When  Error,  issuing  from  his  nightly  haunt, 
Crowned  from  the  revel  meets  thee  face  to  face. 
He  finds  thee  bleeding,  dying,  crucified 
And  yet  immortal.     And  thou  shalt  not  be 
As  some  crushed  martyr,  but  a  conqueror, 
Through  suffering  made  strong  and  sanctified. 
And  when  the  glory  of  the  dawning  day 
Shines  on  thy  face,  God's  fear  shall  smite  his  heart 
And  he  shall  lay  his  laurels  at  thy  feet. 


34  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

IN  THE  SISTINE  CHAPEL 

(Translated  from  the  German.) 

In  the  dim  and  lofty  chamber  of  the  Sistine  Chapel  grand 
Sits  the  sculptor  with  the  Bible  clasped  within  his  nervous 

hand; 

Michael  Angelo  the  mighty,  lost  as  in  a  waking  dream; 
Near  him  one  small  lamp  suspended  sheds  abroad  a  feeble 

gleam. 

He  is  speaking!  Through  the  arches  loud  and  long  his  words 

resound. 
Are  these  friends  to  listen  to  him  by  the  midnight  wrapped 

around? 

Now  he  speaks  as  if  almighty  powers  hearkened  at  his  word; 
Softly  now,  as  if  by  human  ears  the  saddened  tones  were 

heard. 


H.  Howard  Biggar 

Biographical — Born,  Aurora,  S.  D.  Graduated,  Brookings 
high  school,  1905;  South  Dakota  State  College,  1910.  As- 
sistant Agronomist,  S.  D.  S.  C.  Experiment  Station,  two 
years.  Postgraduate  work,  Oregon  Agricultural  College,  one 
year.  Instructor  in  Agriculture,  Northern  Normal  and  In- 
dustrial School,  Aberdeen,  S.  D.,  two  years.  At  present 
(1916)  identified  with  Bureau  of  Plant  Industry,  Washington, 
D.  C. 


H.  HOWARD  BIGGAR 

One  of  our  young  poets  who  suddenly  found 
himself  and  began  to  write  with  an  inviting  rhythm 
is  H.  Howard  Biggar,  a  native  born  South  Dakotan. 
Almost  before  his  friends  realized  it  he  produced 
enough  poems  for  a  whole  volume.  They  cover  a 
wide  range  of  subjects.  Five  of  his  shorter  ones 
are  herein  given : 

HARNEY  PEAK 

When  yer  feeling'  sad  and  lonely, 

And  the  days  just  drag  along, 
When   you'd   give  most  all  yer  pleasure 

Fer  a  bit  of  laugh  and  song. 
When  the  clouds  are  hangin'  heavy, 

•  In  the  sky  no  brilliant  streak, 
Mount  a  Rocky  Mountain  burro; 

Hit  the  trail  fer  Harney  Peak. 

When  the  friend  you  thought  sincerest, 

Like  a  traitor  proves  untrue, 
When  the  shadows  quickly  gather, 

Hiding  ev'ry  tint  and  hue, 
Seek  the  trail  that's  winding  upward 

Where  old  Nature  seems  to  speak, 
Mount  a  Rocky  Mountain  burro, 

Hit  the  trail  fer  Harney  Peak. 

And  you'll  canter  through  the  gulches 
Where  the  streams  reflect  the  blue, 

And  you'll  wander  through  the  forest 
Where  the  sun  is  hid  from  view; 


38  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Through  the  pine-clad  peaks  a  trailin' 
Where  old  Nature  seems  to  speak, 

Mount  a  Rocky  Mountain  burro 
Hit  the  trail  fer  Harney  Peak. 


THE  SUNSET  LAND 

Have  you  ever  dreamed  in  your  fondest  dreams 

Of  the  land  where  the  sunsets  die? 

Where  you  catch  the  gleams  of  the  silv'ry  streams 

'Neath  the  blue  of  a  cloudless  sky? 

Where  the  waters  leap  to  the  canyons  deep 

And  the  pines  in  their  splendor  stand, 

Then  I  know  for  you,  'twas  a  vision  true 

For  you  dreamed  of  the  Sunset  Land. 

Have  you  ever  sighed  at  the  close  of  day, 

As  you  gazed  from  the  open  door, 

For  a  glimpse  of  the  peaks  where  Nature  speaks 

For  the  sound  of  the  ocean's  roar? 

Have  you  ever  thought  of  a  blissful  spot 

With  the  touch  of  an  artist's  hand?' 

Then  I  know  for  you,  'twas  a  longing  true 

For  you  longed  for  the  Sunset  Land. 

Have  you  ever  paused  at  the  dawn  of  day 

When  the  old  world  floods  with  light? 

And  sighed  for  the  place  where  the  geysers  play 

And  the  eagle  wings  its  flight? 

Where  the  ice-fields  glare  in  the  cooling  air 

And  the  tide-wave  sweeps  the  sand. 

Then  I  know  your  quest  was  the  golden  west 

And  you  sighed  for  the  Sunset  Land. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  39 

THE  WORLD'S  OUT-OF-DOORS 

'Tis  joy  to  ride  o'er  the  grassy  plains 

And  follow  the  wild  stampede, 

To  rest  at  night  'neath  the  star's  pale  light 

By  the  side  of  your  faithful  steed; 

There's  health  in  the  chase  for  the  wily  game 

And  joy  in  the  sport  that  thrills, 

As  you  listen  at  morn  for  the  huntsman's  horn 

And  canter  away  to  the  hills. 

There  are  forests  vast  where  I  fain  would  roam, 

There  are  mountains  with  caps  of  snow, 

There  are  canyons  steep  where  the  waters  leap 

To  the  chasms  so  far  below; 

And  whether  we  ride  o'er  the  billowy  plains 

Or  sail  o'er  the  surging  sea, 

There's  joy  in  the  quest  for  the  life  that's  best, 

The  life  that  is  wild  and  free; 

I  love  the  scent  of  the  towering  pines, 

The  gleam  of  the  heaving  seas, 

The  tints  that  glow  when  the  sun  is  low, 

The  life  that  is  wild  and  free, 

I  love  to  stand  by  the  cascade's  brink 

Where  the  water  in  splendor  pours, 

And  catch  the  spell  of  the  throbs  that  swell 

From  the  heart  of  the  world's  outdoors. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WEST 

I  see  in  my  dreams  oftentimes  as  I  rest, 

The  peaks  where  the  snow-caps  are  glowing, 

And  I  hear  the  dull  roar  of  the  waters  that  pour 

In  the  land  where  the  rivers  are  flowing. 

I  list  and  I  hear  the  clear  beckoning  call 

Of  the  woods  and  the  mountains — and  then 

I  am  gripped  by  the  spell — there's  a  feeling  of — well 

I  just  wish  I  were  out  West  again. 


40  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

I  sit  by  the  hearth  where  the  embers  are  bright 

And  they  crackle  a  message  so  cheery, 

There's  a  hush  in  the  street  and  there's  no  one  to  greet, 

And  the  world  seems  so  lonely  and  dreary. 

But  I  drift  far  away,  where  the  cataracts  play, 

I  am  lost  in  the  grandeur — and  then 

There's  a  spell  I  can't  tell  or  express  very  well, 

But  I  wish  I  were  out  West  again. 

I  hear  in  my  dreaming,  the  sound  of  the  sea, 

Where  the  breakers  are  roaring  and  crashing, 

In  the  midst  of  the  deep,  where  the  ships  proudly  sweep, 

And  the  waters  are  foaming  and  dashing. 

On  the  hurricane  deck,  we  are  off — soon  a  speck 

We  are  lost  in  the  distance — and  then 

I  am  gripped  by  the  spell,  there's  a  feeling  of — well 

I  just  wish  I  were  out  West  again. 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  RANGE 

I  have  played  my  part  in  the  bustling  mart 

Where  the  restless  thousands  dwell, 

I've  been  swept  aside  by  the  restless  tide 

Where  they  barter  and  buy  and  sell. 

I  have  fought  my  fight  as  I  saw  the  right, 

In  the  battle  with  knavish  men, 

And  I  cease  my  quest  in  the  great  unrest 

For  the  call  of  the  range  again. 

I  have  taken  heed  of  the  lust  and  greed 

Where  the  masters  wrest  the  spoil, 

I  have  spent  my  time  'mid  the  dust  and  grime, 

In  the  ranks  where  the  minions  toil; 

And  I  loathe  the  glare  and  the  strife  and  care 

And  the  surge  of  the  human  sea. 

So  I've  slung  my  pack  and  I'm  going  back, 

For  the  range  is  a-calling  me. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  41 

I  can  feel  the  thrill  of  the  stampede  still, 

As  it  swept  o'er  the  prairies  wide, 

I  have  caught  the  spell  of  the  tales  they  tell 

At  the  close  of  the  long  day's  ride. 

I  have  known  the  zest  of  the  boundless  West 

Of  the  region  of  fearless  men, 

So  I  cease  my  life  in  the  city's  strife 

For  the  call  of  the  range  again. 

Men  may  spend  their  time  'mid  the  dust  and  grime 

Where  the  great  steel  structures  rise, 

But  in  sweet  content,  I  will  pitch  my  tent 

'Neath  the  blue  of  the  rangeland  skies; 

For  there's  health  I  know  where  the  sunsets  glow, 

There's  a  life  that  is  wild  and  free, 

So  I've  slung  my  pack  and  I'm  going  back 

Where  the  range  is  a-calling  me. 


Daisy  Dean-Carr 

Biographical — Born  in  Mower  county,  Minnesota.  Came 
to  Dakota  in  1883.  Educated  in  the  rural  schools  of  Minne- 
sota and  South  Dakota;  under  a  private  tutor  at  Jackson, 
Mich;  in  the  Flandreau,  S.  D.,  public  schools  and  at  the  Madi- 
son, S.  D.,  state  normal;  also  took  special  training,  Chicago 
University.  Taught  school  at  Bethel,  Michigan;  in  the  rural 
schools  of  South  Dakota  and  in  the  village  of  Egan.  Elected 
superintendent  of  Moody  county  in  1902.  Refused  re-election 
in  1904.  Married  Frank  W.  Carr  in  1905.  Husband  died 
February  3,  1910.  Mother  of  one  child — a  girl.  Re-elected 
superintendent  of  Moody  county  in  1908,  and  elected  again 
in  1910.  At  present,  critic  teacher  in  the  Madison  state 
normal. 


MRS.  DAISY  DEAN-CARR 

Mrs.  Carr  writes  both  prose  and  poetry,  with 
equal  skill  and  grace.  But  her  reputation  as  a 
writer  will,  in  all  probability,  rest  upon  her  poetical 
productions.  She  sings  with  a  melody  that  is  dis- 
tinctly feminine,  and  her  musings  revel  in  nature 
and  immortality. 

While  yet  a  mere  girl,  at  the  time  of  her  gradu- 
ation, she  was  chosen  poetess  of  her  class.  In  1896 
she  wrote  many  poems — the  best  of  which  is  her 
"Education's  Everest."  However,  in  1898,  her  poet- 
ical instinct  began  to  give  expression  to  more  mature 
poems,  as  is  evidenced  by  her  "Hidden  Beauties." 
The  next  year  her  "Good  Night"  appeared,  and  then 
nine  years  passed  by.  Training  children  in  the 
schoolroom  has  given  way  to  her  own  babe,  standing 
at  its  mother's  knee.  Maternal  responsibilities, 
grief  and  patient  thought,  wean  our  poetess  from 
the  rambling  verses  of  childhood,  which  bordered  on 
poetastry,  so  that,  in  1908,  we  find  her  in  deeper 
reflection ;  and  from  her  poetical  meditations  of  that 
year  we  have  selected  the  following  poems  which 
illustrate  most  acceptably  her  easy  style : 

TREASURES 

Covered  now  by  dust  and  cobwebs, 

In  an  attic  chamber  bare, 
Are  some  treasures  far  more  precious 

Than  much  gold  or  jewels  rare. 


44  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Would  you  view  these  treasures  with  me?- 
Come  and  I  will  gladly  show — 

None  but  I  could  tell  you  rightly — 
None  but  I  their  value  know. 

See  you  this  most  ancient  rocker; 

Sit  you  down — 'twas  once  my  sires'; 
His  descended  from  his  father's, 

Formerly  from  Devonshire. 

Note  the  richness  of  the  carving — 
Quaint  the  beauty  of  design; 

Massive — strong — a  fitting  relic 
Of  the  Brittons  of  that  time. 

See  this  heavy  oaken  cradle; 

This  for  generations  three 
Rocked  my  mother's  mother's  kindred — 

Finally  it  served  for  me. 

Here's  a  spinning  wheel  much  valued 

As  a  relic  of  the  day 
When  we  as  a  puny  nation 

Dared  defy  King  George's  sway. 

And  my  grandma  often  told  me 
Of  the  spinning  night  and  day, 

Done  by  mothers,  wives  and  sisters 
For  their  heroes  far  away. 

As  this  very  wheel  did  service 
In  that  cause  so  just  and  right, 

You'll  not  wonder  at  the  value 
It  acquires  in  my  sight. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  45 

Over  'gainst  the  wall  you  notice 

Hang  a  rusty  sword  and  gun; 
Those  my  great  grandsire  carried 

Through  the  war  from  Lexington. 

Right  beneath  these  hangs  a  musket 

Much  more  modern  in  its  make; 
This  my  father  bravely  carried 

In  the  war  between  the  states. 

These  and  many  other  relics 

It  would  take  too  long  to  show; — 
I'll  not  tax  your  patience  further 

With  my  tales  of  "long  ago." 

You   are   young,  and  in   the  present 
Live  your  thought  and  hopes  so  dear; 

Mine,  as  ever  do  the  ageds' 
Oft  revert  to  by-gone  years. 

Here  within  this  dusty  attic 

With  my  treasures  worn  and  old, 
Happy  mem'ries  hover  round  me 

Bringing  peace  and  joy  untold. 


SPRINGTIME  IN  DAKOTA 

Winter's  reign  is  nearly  over — 

Many  signs  portend; 
Jack  Frost's  frolicsome  adventures 

Very  soon  must  end. 
Broken  are  the  icy  fetters 

Of  the  lakes  and  streams; 
Feathered  emigrants  already 

Flying  north  are  seen. 


46  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Ducks  and  geese  by  scores  and  hundreds 

Flock  to  pond  and  lake, 
Where  the  mink  and  muskrat  early 

Winter  haunts  forsake. 
Meadow  larks  and  robin  redbreasts 

Whistle  loud,  and  sing, 
Telling  that  the  winter's  over 

And  again  'tis  spring. 

Soon  the  cotton-wood  and  maple 

And  box-elder  trees 
Put  forth  buds  beneath  whose  cov'ring 

Lie  the  germs  of  leaves; 
Pussy  willow  soft  and  downy 

Hangs  its  tasseled  head; 
Apple  trees  are  gay  and  fragrant, 

Decked  in  pink  and  red. 

And  upon  the  sunny  hillsides, 

Pale  anemones 
Meekly  lift  their  starry  faces 

To  the  kindly  breeze; 
Soon  the  sturdy  crocus  follows 

Dressed  in  royal  hue; 
Tulips  clad  in  gorgeous  raiment 

Southern  breezes  woo. 

Violets  and  johnny-jump-ups 

In  the  meadows  hide; 
Also  buttercups  so  golden 

Nestle  side  by  side, 
Almost  hidden  by  the  grasses — 

There  content  to  grow, 
Sweetly  fragrant,  in  their  corner 

Snugly  sheltered  so. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  47 

Thus,  the  growing  time  advancing 

All  God's  laws  obey; 
Germ  and  bud  and  early  blossom — 

For  as  night  and  day 
Follow  each  in  perfect  order 

Likewise  f  ojlow  they, 
Bringing  hope  and  joy  in  living 

Now,  and  too,  alway. 

OUR  SUNSHINE  STATE 

Not  many  years  ago  our  state 

Lay  unexplored  prairie  lands; 
To  boundless  areas,  the  gate; 

The  home  of  nomad  Indian  bands, 
Who  with  each  other  fought  to  gain 

Supreme  dominion  of  the  plain. 

The  herds  of  giant  buffaloes— 

A  common  foe  or  prey  they  fought 
Through  summers'  heat  and  winters'  snows — 

Supremacy  as  ever  sought. 
'Till  from  the  East,  a  greater  came 

To  conquer,  vanquish,  rule  and  reign. 

The  white  man  from  the  eastern  shore, 
Had  forged  ahead  o'er  mount  and  plain, 

In  quest  eternal — wanting  more 
Of  pow'r,  adventure,  riches,  fame. 

He  reached  our  land — all  else  gave  way — 
The  Anglo-Saxon  held  full  sway. 

But  those  who  for  adventure  came, 

Or  whom  the  craze  for  gold  had  won, 
Passed  onward,  seeking  e'er  the  same 

In  lands  far  toward  the  setting  sun. 
Dakota's  commonwealth  was  formed 

By  those  who  never  labor  scorned. 


48  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

The  honest  settler  came  to  stay, 
And  from  the  soil  a  living  wrest; 

Unflinching  facing  night  and  day 

Those  grimmest  terrors  of  the  west — 

The  redskins  with  their  stoic  might 
And  real  or  fancied  wrongs,  to  right. 

But  soon  through  treaty,  peace  was  gained, 
The  tomahawk  no  more  was  seen, 

And  where  most  deadly  war  once  reigned, 
The  dove  of  Peace  then  slept  serene, 

Dakota's  sons,  too,  side  by  side 
In  fellowship  secure  abide. 

Neat  homes,  now  dot  the  prairie  wide — 
The  forts  of  sturdy  sons  of  toil, 

With  wife  and  children  at  their  side, 

Staunch  through  the  years  of  weary  moil. 

Aye,  proudly  may  we  claim  to  be 
Descendents  of  Nobility. 

Dakota,  won  through  warfare  grim, 

Despite  climatic  terrors  too, 
Of  drought  and  blizzard — hail  and  wind, 

With  confidence  we  look  to  you, 
For  peace  and  plenty — aye,  and  more 

Are  always  found  within  thy  door. 

Hurrah!  then  for  the  pioneers 

Who  lead  the  way  across  the  plain! 

Let  ev'ry  hill  resound  with  cheers, 
Reverberating  yet  again, 

"Our  Sunshine  State" — "Thy  Builders  true"- 
All  honor,  praise,  we  give  to  you. 


Charles  Badger  Clark 

Biographical — Born,  Albia,  Iowa,  Jan.  1,  1883.  Brought 
to  Dakota  by  his  parents  at  three  months  of  age.  Educated 
in  the  public  schools  of  Mitchell,  Huron  and  Deadwood,  and 
at  Dakota  Wesleyan  University.  At  nineteen,  went  to  Cuba. 
Remained  two  years.  Came  back  and  spent  one  year  at 
Deadwood.  Went  to  Arizona  for  four  years.  Employed  on 
a  cattle  ranch  twenty  miles  from  Mexican  border.  During 
this  experience  wrote  his  cowboy  lyrics.  Returned  to  Hot 
Springs,  S.  D.,  in  1910. 


CHARLES  BADGER  CLARK 

Conspicuous  among  Black  Hills'  writers  is 
Charles  Badger  Clark — known  in  literary  circles  as 
"Badger  Clark."  Educated  in  the  public  schools  of 
the  state  and  at  Dakota  Wesleyan,  Clark  had  a  good 
foundation  for  his  literary  work.  To  this  he  added 
that  widening  influence  that  comes  from  travel,  by 
sojourning  for  a  year  in  Cuba  and  by  spending  four 
years  as  a  cow-boy  in  Arizona.  His  poems,  there- 
fore, while  dealing  largely  with  local  affairs,  have, 
nevertheless,  a  wide  horizon. 

His  cow-boy  lyrics  were  first  published  by  the 
old  Pacific  Monthly  and  other  magazines.  Later, 
twenty-two  of  them  were  collected  and  published  in 
book  form  by  the  Richard  G.  Badger  Co.,  Boston, 
under  the  caption  "Sun  And  Saddle  Leather."  From 
this  volume  two  poems  have  been  selected  for  re- 
publication.  The  first  one,  entitled  "A  Cowboy's 
Prayer,"  is  Clark's  best  production.  A  weird  piece 
of  poetic  imagery  is  his  "Legend  of  Boastful  Bill." 
These  two  lyrics  give  one  a  general  idea  of  his  style. 

A  COWBOY'S  PRAYER 

(Written  for  Mother.) 

Oh  Lord.    I've  never  lived  where  churches  grow. 

I  love  creation  better  as  it  stood 
That  day  You  finished  it  so  long"  ago 

And  looked  upon  Your  work  and  called  it  good. 


52  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

I  know  that  others  find  You  in  the  light 

That's  sifted  down  through  tinted  window  panes, 

And  yet  I  seem  to  feel  You  near  tonight 
In  this  dim,  quiet  starlight  on  the  plains. 

I  thank  You,  Lord,  that  I  am  placed  so  well, 

That  You  have  made  my  freedom  so  complete; 
That  I'm  no  slave  of  whistle,  clock  or  bell, 

Nor  weak-eyed  prisoner  of  wall  and  street. 
Just  let  me  live  my  life  as  I've  begun 

And  give  me  work  that's  open  to  the  sky 
Make  me  a  partner  of  the  wind  and  sun, 

And  I  won't  ask  a  life  that's  soft  or  high. 

Let  me  be  easy  on  the  man  that's  down; 

Let  me  be  square  and  generous  with  all. 
I'm  careless  sometimes,  Lord,  when  I'm  in  town, 

But  never  let  'em  say  I'm  mean  or  small! 
Make  me  as  big  and  open  as  the  plains, 

As  honest  as  the  hawse  between  my  knees, 
Clean  as  the  wind  that  blows  behind  the  rains, 

Free  as  the  hawk  that  circles  down  the  breeze! 

Forgive  me,  Lord,  if  sometimes  I  forget. 

You  know  about  the  reasons  that  are  hid. 
You  understand  the  things  that  gall  and  fret; 

You  know  me  better  than  my  mother  did. 
Just  keep  an  eye  on  all  that's  done  and  said 

And  right  me,  sometimes,  when  I  turn  aside, 
And  guide  me  on  the  long,  dim  trail  ahead 

That  stretches  upward  toward  the  Great  Divide. 

THE  LEGEND  OF  BOASTFUL  BILL 

At  a  roundup  on  the  Gily, 

One  sweet  mornin'  long  ago, 
Ten  of  us  was  throwed  right  freely 

By  a  hawse  from  Idaho. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  '  53 

And  we  thought  he'd  go  a-beggin' 

For  a  man  to  break  his  pride 
Till,  a-hitchin'  up  one  leggin', 

Boastful  Bill  cut  loose  and  cried — 

"I'm  a  on'ry  proposition  for  to  hurt; 

I  fulfill  my  earthly  mission  with  a  quirt; 
I  kin  ride  the  highest  liver 

'Tween  the  Gulf  and  Powder  River, 
And  I'll  break  this  thing  as  easy  as  I'd  flirt." 

So  Bill  climbed  the  Northern  Fury 

And  they  mangled  up  the  air 
Till  a  native  of  Missouri 

Would  have  owned  his  brag  was  fair. 
Though  the  plunges  kep'  him  reelin' 

And  the  wind  it  flapped  his  shirt, 
Loud  above  the  hawse's  squealin' 

We  could  hear  our  friend  assert 

"I'm  the  one  to  take  such  rakin's  as  a  joke. 

Some  one  hand  me  up  the  makin's  of  a  smoke! 
If  you  think  my  fame  needs  bright'nin' 

W'y,  I'll  rope  a  streak  of  lightnin' 
And  I'll  cinch  'im  up  and  spur  'im  till  he's  broke." 

Then  one  caper  of  repulsion 

Broke  that  hawse's  back  in  two. 
Cinches  snapped  in  the  convulsion; 

Skyward  man  and  saddle  flew. 
Up  he  mounted,  never  laggin', 

While  we  watched  him  through  our  tears, 
And  his  last  thin  bit  of  braggin' 

Came  a-droppin'  to  our  ears. 


54  *  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

"If  you'd  ever  watched  my  habits  very  close 
You  would  know  I've  broke  such  rabbits  by  the 
gross. 

I  have  kep'  my  talent  hidin'; 
I'm  too  good  for  earthly  ridin' 

And  I'm  off  to  bust  the  lightnin's — Adios! 

Years  have  gone  since  that  ascension. 

Boastful  Bill  aint  never  lit, 
So  we  reckon  that  he's  wrenchin' 

Some  celestial  outlaw's  bit. 
When  the  night  rain  beats  our  slickers 

And  the  wind  is  swift  and  stout 
And  the  lightning'  flares  anl  flickers, 

We  kin  sometimes  hear  him  shout — 

"I'm  a  bronco-twistin'  wonder  on  the  fly; 

I'm  the  ridin'  son-of -thunder  of  the  sky. 
Hi!  you  earthlin's  shut  your  winders 

While  we're  rippin'  clouds  to  flinders. 
If  this  blue-eyed  darlin'  kicks  at  you,  you  die! 

Star  dust  on  his  chaps  and  saddle, 

Scornful  still  of  jar  and  jolt, 
He'll  come  back  some  day,  astraddle 

Of  a  bald-faced  thunderbolt. 
And  the  thin-skinned  generation 

Of  that  dim  and  distant  day 
Sure  will  stare  with  admiration 

When  they  hear  old  Boastful  say — 

"I  was  first,  as  old  rawhiders  all  confessed. 

Now  I'm  last  of  all  rough  riders,  and  the  best. 
Huh!  you  soft  and  dainty  floaters, 

With  your  a'roplanes  and  motors — 
Huh!    are    you    the    great    grandchildren    of    the 
West!" 


POETS  AND  POETRY  55 

A  dainty  little  lullaby  of  Clark's  is  his  "long- 
ing" to  return  to  Dakota,  which  appeared  in  an  old 
issue  of  the  Deadwood  Pioneer-Times.  It  follows: 

Though  a  restless  man  may  wander  from  Johannesburg  to 

Nome, 
There  is  always  some  one  country  that  he  dreams  about  as 

"home." 
Here  and  there  I  camp  and  sojourn  in  my  roamings  back  and 

forth 
But  my  dreams  are  always  drifting  to  the  Black  Hills  of  the 

north. 

Now,  while  western  skies  are  glowing  like  an  open  furnace 

mouth 
And  the  soft,  gray  shadows  gather  on  these  deserts  of  the 

south 
And  the  coyote's  first  weird  night-cry  down  the  dim  arroyo 

shrills, 
Like  a  sinner's  dream  of  Heaven  come  my  visions  of  the 

Hills. 


In  addition  to  the  foregoing  poems,  it  has  been 
deemed  wise,  in  order  to  give  the  reader  a  broader 
view  of  Clark,  to  reproduce  two  of  his  more  recent 
poems  which  were  not  included  in  his  book : 

THE  SPRINGTIME  PLAINS 

(From  Scribner's  Magazine,  1915.) 

Heart  of  me,  .are  you  hearing 

The  drum  of  hoofs  in  the  rains? 

Over  the  Springtime  plains  I  ride, 

Knee  to  knee  with   Spring 

And  glad  as  the  summering  sun  that  comes 


56  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Galloping  north  through  the  zodiac. 

Heart  of  me,  let's  forget 

The  plains  death  white  and  still, 

When  lonely  love  through  the  stillness  called 

Like  a  smothered  stream  that  sings  of  Summer 

Under  the  snow  on  a  Winter  night. 

Now  the  frost  is  blown  from  the  sky 

And  the  plains  are  living  again. 

Lark  lovers  sing  on  the  sunrise  trail, 

Wild  horses  call  to  me  out  of  the  noon, 

Watching  me  pass  with  impish  eyes, 

Gray  coyotes  laugh  in  the  quiet  dusk 

And  the  plains  are  glad  all  day  with  me. 

Heart  of  me,  all  the  way 

My  heart  and  the  hoofs  keep  time 

And   the   wide,   sweet   winds   from   the    greening 

world 

Shout  in  my  ears  a  glory  song, 
For  nearer,  nearer,  mile  and  mile, 
Over  the  quivering  rim  of  the  plains 
Is  the  valley  that  Spring  and  I  love  best 
And  the  waiting  eyes  of  you! 


THE  MEDICINE  MAN 

(From  "The  Bellman,"  Minneapolis,   1915.) 

(The  following  is  taken  from  an  actual  occurrence  described  by 
Parkman,  which  happened  in  what  is  now  western  South  Dakota,  in  the 
year  1844.) 

"The  trail  is  long  to  the  bison  herd, 

The  prairie  rotten  with  rain, 
And  look!  the  wings  of  the  thunder  bird 

Blacken  the  Hills  again. 
A  medicine  man  the  gods  may  balk — 
Go  fight  for  us  with  the  thunder  hawk!" 


POETS  AND  POETRY  57 

The  medicine  man  flung  wide  his  arms. 

"I  am  weary  of  woman  talk 
And  cook-fire  witching  and  childish  charms. 

I  fight  you  the  thunder  hawk!" 
So  he  took  his  arrows  and  climbed  the  butte 
While  the  warriors  watched  him,  scared  and  mute. 

A  wind  from  the  wings  began  to  blow 

And  arrows  of  rain  to  shoot 
As  the  medicine  man  raised  high  his  bow, 

Standing  alone  on  the  butte, 
And  the  day  went  dark  to  the  cowering  band 
As  the  arrow  leaped  from  his  steady  hand. 

For  the  thunder  hawk  swooped  down  to  fight 

And  who  in  his  way  could  stand? 
The  flash  of  his  eye  was  blinding  bright 

And  his  wing-clap  stunned  the  land. 
The  braves  yelled  terror  and  loosed  the  rein 
And  scattered  far  on  the  drowning  plain. 

And  after  the  thunder  hawk  swept  by 

They  found  him,  scorched  and  slain, 
Yet — fighting  with  gods,  "who  fears  to  die?" — 

He  smiled  with  a  light  disdain. 
That  smile  was  a  glory  to  all  his  clan 
But  none  dared  touch  the  medicine  man. 


iSAMUEL  TRAVERS  CLOVER 


(Compliments  of  Chicago  Evening   Post.) 

Biographical — Born,  London,  England,  August  13,  1859. 
Academic  education.  Began  newspaper  career  in  1880.  Made 
trip  around  the  world.  Associated  with  Dakota  newspapers 
five  years.  Staff  correspondent  Chicago  Herald.  Reported 
Indian  Uprising  of  1890  and  Messiah  Outbreak  of  1891.  Last 
white  man  who  saw  the  famous  Indian  chief,  Sitting  Bull, 
alive.  Managing  editor  Chicago  Evening  Post,  1894.  Now 
(1916)  editor  Los  Angeles  Graphic.  Married  Mabel  Hitt, 
Oregon,  111.,  April  3,  1884.  Author  of  five  books  and  of 
numerous  poems  and  sketches  of  the  west. 


SAM  T.  CLOVER 

No  literature  of  South  Dakota  could  be  complete 
without  some  space  in  it  being  given  to  the  writings 
of  Sam  T.  Clover.  Although  foreign  born,  his 
sympathies  are  essentially  American  and  his  style 
is  typically  western.  There  is  a  keenness  and  a 
breadth  in  his  prose  that  excites  wonder,  while  his 
poetry  is  universal ;  that  is,  it  touches  all  humanity. 
For  this  reason  some  of  his  better  poems  are  destined 
to  live.  The  universality  of  his  "Sublimity"  would 
entitle  it  to  a  place  in  any  literature.  It  touches  on 
heart  strings  that  tingle  with  memory  as  well  as 
imagination. 

SUBLIMITY 

I  asked  a  maiden  in  the  blush  of  youth, 
In  whose  gray  eyes  there  shone  the  germs  of  truth, 
Whose  soft  red  lips  were  parted  in  a  smile, 
Whose  lovely  face  was  innocent  of  guile: 
"What  do  you  hold  the  dearest  thing  in  life?" 
"To  be,"  she  answer  made,  "a  happy  wife!" 

I  asked  the  mother,  as  she  softly  pressed, 
With  tender  care,  an  infant  to  her  breast, 
Whose  gentle  glances  hovered  o'er  the  child — 
Which,  sleeping,  of  the  angels  dreamed  and  smiled — 
"What  is  the  sweetest  pain  there  is  on  earth?" 
She  bent  and  kissed  the  babe:  "In  giving  birth!" 


60  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

I  asked  the  matron,  who  with  loving  pride 
Beheld  the  children  clustered  by  her  side; 
Who  in  the  wicker  chair  rocked  to  and  fro — 
Just  as  she  rocked  and  crooned  in  years  ago — 
"What  is  the  greatest  blessing  God  can  send?" 
"A  home  where  love  and  sweet  contentment  blend!" 

I  asked  a  wrinkled  woman,  o'er  whose  head 

The  snows  of  many  a  winter  had  been  shed, 

Whose  children  from  the  roof -tree  far  had  strayed — 

Whose  husband  in  his  grave  had  long  been  laid — 

"What  is  the  dearest  memory  of  your  life?" 

"The  day  that  I  was  made  a  happy  wife!" 


From  this  poem  we  pass  to  one  of  his  beautifully 
painted  evening  sketches.  In  a  level  prairie  country 
on  top  of  the  North  American  divide  where  the 
plains  are  swept  alternately  and  almost  continually 
by  the  tireless  winds,  it  is  but  natural,  in  case  he 
were  going  to  picture  a  scene  of  sunset,  that  he 
should,  in  opening  each  of  the  first  two  stanzas, 
allude  to  the  "breeze"  and  the  "wind." 

EVENING  IN  DAKOTA 

The  breeze  dies  down, 

The  air  is  fresh  and  fragrant.    The  budding  trees 
Exhausted  by  the  long  unbroken  pressure, 
Uplift  their  drooping  leaves  and  drink  the  dew 
Which  gives  them  nourishment  and  sustenance. 

The  boisterous  wind 
Is  stilled  at  last,  as  though  worn  out 
By  its  own  turbulence.     The  flagging  heart  revives; 
The  tensioned  nerves  relax  their  rigorous  strain, 
Easing  the  fevered  brow  and  throbbing  pulse. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  61 

The  placid  stars 

In  far-off  azure  heights,  peep  shyly  out 
And  to  the  tired  eyes  bring  soothing  sleep. 
A  sense  of  rest  pervades  the  atmosphere — 
Nature  seems  hushed  in  quiet  thankfulness. 


His  perfect  contentment  with  his  changed  life 
from  the  busy  streets  of  London  to  the  plains  of 
western  Dakota  is  cozily  set  forth  in  the  following 
poem: 

CONTENT 

One  seeks  in  vain 

A  fairer  country  than  this  broad  domain — 
Where  freedom  dwells  on  coteau,  hill,  and  plain — 
And  fertile  prairies,  rich  with  growing  grain, 
Invite  the  men  of  courage,  brawn,  and  brain. 

Hither  on  breezy  wing 

Far  from  the  pampered  east  a-wandering — 
All  gilded  customs  to  the  winds  I  fling; 
Why  should  my  heart  to  city  pleasures  cling? 
My  shack's  a  castle!  and  I  reign  its  king. 

Then  come  what  may, 
Here,  in  this  cabin  rude,  content  I'll  stay; 
Here,  at  my  cabin  door,  I'll  whiff  away 
The  cares  and  troubles  of  a  yesterday: — 
Why  should  I  change  my  lot?     Why  farther  stray? 


In  addition  to  his  poetry  and  his  newspaper 
work,  Clover  also  wrote  five  charming  volumes  of 
prose.  These  are  his  "Paul  Travers'  Adventures," 


62  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

"Glimpses  Across  the  Sea,"  "Rose  Reef  to  Bulu- 
wayo,"  "On  Special  Assignment"  and  "Kathrine 
Howard."  As  these  books  came  from  press,  they 
were  widely  read,  but  like  other  works  of  fiction, 
even  though  they  may  have  a  firm  historical  setting, 
they  soon  must  give  way  for  newer  works  along 
the  same  line. 

But  Clover  must  also  be  associated  with  the 
newspaper  life  of  the  state.  For  some  time  he  and 
Hayden  Carruth,  former  publisher  of  the  Estelline 
(S.  D.)  Bell,  published  the  Dakota  Bell,  at  Sioux 
Falls.  Their  clever  sayings  and  ready  poems  made 
the  Bell,  for  the  time  being,  one  of  the  strongest 
literary  weeklies  in  the  state.  Their  original  matter 
was  quoted  far  and  wide  by  the  leading  dailies  of  the 
west,  and  by  the  magazines  of  the  whole  country. 
They  finally  sold  out :  Clover  became  identified  with 
the  Chicago  Herald  and  Carruth  joined  the  staff  of 
Harper's  Weekly. 


Conal  Cearnach   (Mary  Martin) 

Biographical — Born,  Illinois,  1881.  Came  to  Dakota, 
1888.  Finished  Eighth  Grade,  Tripp,  S.  D.  schools.  Attended 
high  school,  Joliet,  111.,  1897-98;  St.  Mary's  Academy,  same 
city,  1901-02.  Passed  Teachers'  Examination,  but  never 
taught.  Returned  to  South  Dakota.  At  home  with  parents 
on  farm  near  Tripp,  S.  D.  Furnishes  poems  regularly  to 
newspapers. 


CONAL  CEARNACK 

A  dainty  little  volume  of  verse  is  one  printed 
locally,  entitled  "The  Wind  Song  and  Other  Poems," 
by  Conal  Cearnack  (Mary  Martin),  of  Hutchinson 
county.  Miss  Martin  whose  nom  de  plume,  "Conal 
Cearnack,"  is  taken  fr3m  one  of  the  old  Irish  Kings, 
sings  with  a  touch  that  is  very  artistic.  She  is 
philosophical,  historical,  prolific;  yet,  withal,  she 
apparently  does  her  best  work  in  dialect. 

"The  Wind  Song"  is  a  production  of  consider- 
able length,  containing  an  Introduction,  a  Response, 
and  forty-five  stanzas  ranging  from  eight  to 
sixteen  lines  each.  One  of  her  best  dialect  poems 
is  herein  given  in  its  entirety : 

"COME  PATRICK'S  DAY  IN  THE  MORNINV 

Whisht!  me  eyes  are  dim  wid  tear-drops 

Come  wid  lonesomeness  the  day. 
An'  me  heart  is  sore  wid  achin' 

For  a  time  that's  far  away. 
An'  I'm  dreamin',  dreamin',  dreamin', 

An'  forever  do  I  see 
The  holy  hills  of  Ireland, 

Lifted  from  the  shinin'  sea. 

Sure  'tis  fifty  years  come  May-day 

Since  I  left  the  dear  ol'  land. 
Wid  Shane  O'Neil  beside  me 

An'  his  gold  ring  on  me  hand. 
We  were  little  more  than  children 

But  God  blessed  us  man  an'  wife, 
An'  sint  us  out  brave-hearted 

To  face  the  great  world's  strife. 


66  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Faith  the  years  were  long  for  striving 

An'  for  keepin'  back  the  tear, 
Sure  meself  is  nearer  cryin' 

Thin  I've  been  in  many  a  year. 
An'  the  lonesomeness  that's  on  me 

Come  on  in  a  sudden  way, 
From  a  tune  a  b'y  was  whistlin' 

In  the  street  this  Patrick's  Day. 

He  waked  me  up  this  mornin' 

Wid  his  whistle  sweet  an'  shrill, 
That  tuck  me  back  in  fancy 

To  the  bog-land  an'  the  hill. 
An'  I  see  me  brother  smilin' 

As  he  waves  his  hand  to  me, 
An'  his  whistle,  "Whisht,  God's  blessin', 

It  is  Patrick's  Day  ma  chree." 

Patrick's  Day  in  Holy  Ireland, 

Wid  the  frost  white  on  the  bog, 
Wid  the  golden  sun-beams  glintin' 

Through  the  faintest  wreath  in  fog. 
Wid  the  whole  world's  jewelled  beauty 

Spread  our  eager  eyes  before, 
An'  Croaghpatrick's  holy  shadow 

Reachin'  to  me  father's  door. 


We  were  up  before  'twas  daylight, 

Hughie,  H'deen,  Maeve,  an'  I, 
Stealin'  softly  through  the  boreen 

While  the  stars  were  in  the  sky. 
Up  Croaghpatrick's  windin'  footpaths 

For  it  ever  was  our  way, 
To  pluck  the  leaves  of  Shamrock, 

Just  as  dawn  turned  to  day. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  67 

There's  a  thrill  of  music  liltin? 

Through  the  dawn-light  grey  an'  dim, 
Hughie's  whistle,-  sure  the  thrushes 

Learnt  their  melody  of  him. 
An'  the  golden  sunrise  never 

Shone  on  fairer  heart  than  he 
An'  his  whistle— "Whisht,  God's  blessin', 

It  is  Patrick's  Day  ma  chree." 

Each  with  precious  treasure  laden 

Home  we'd  turn  our  foot-steps  then, 
Past  the  forge  of  Lantie  Rogan 

At  the  bottom  of  the  glen. 
An'  we'd  linger  long  beside  the  forge 

(Despite  our  mother's  warn'n'), 
In  hopes  of  hearin'  Lantie  sing 

"Come  Patrick's  Day  in  the  morninV 

Lantie's  v'ice,  sure  'twas  the  invy 

In  the  parish  far  an'  near, 
Sure  the  likes  av  it  in  Dublin 

At  the  Castle  ye'd  not  hear. 
An'  I've  heard  my  father  tell  it — 

(Be  God's  mercy  on  his  head) — 
Lantie's  singin'  "Faugh-a-Ballah" 

Sure  was  fit  to  wake  the  dead. 

0  me  heart,  the  long  years  lyin' 

'Twixt  the  times  that  were  an'  this, 
'Tis  no  wonder  that  the  oF  days 

From  America  I  miss. 
Thrue  me  childer  love  oF  Erin, 

(Sure  they  learnt  it  at  me  knee) 
But  the  sunrise  on  Croaghpatrick 

Is  a  sight  they  never  see. 


68  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

But  there's  hearts  here  just  as  eager, 

An'  there's  blood  that  beats  as  high, 
Sure  I  hear  the  music  liltin' 

An*  I  see  thim  marchin'  by — 
Each  one  wearin'  the  green  ribbon, 

An'  their  banners  proudly  wave, 
An'  it  takes  me  back  to  Erin. 

Hugh,  Dileen,  an'  bonny  Maeve. 

Whisht,  me  eyes  are  dim  wid  tear-drops 

Come  from  lonesomeness  the  day, 
An'  the  heart  of  me  is  achin' 

For  a  time  that's  far  away. 
An'  the  lonesomeness  that's  on  me 

Come  on  sudden,  without  warnin', 
Whin  a  b'y  came  by  me  whistlin' 

'Come  Patrick's  Day  in  the  morning'." 


Three  other  excellent  poems  of  hers  are :  "The 
First  Mistletoe,"  "The  Tryst  at  Bethlehem"  and 
"Wasted  Arrows."  A  recent  one,  published  in  the 
Tripp  Ledger,  gained  wide  recognition.  One  of  the 
largest  dailies  in  the  west  asked  permission  to  re- 
produce it.  This  poem  follows: 

PEDLAR  DAN 

It's  me  is  the  wan  has  the  welkim  sweet 

From  ind  to  ind  o'  the  year, 

I  am  niver  wantin'  a  bite  or  sup 

Or  a  kindly  word  o'  cheer. 

It  is — "Yerra,  but  where  have  you  bin  the  while"- 

An' — "Be  takin'  life  aisy  man," 

Shure  niver  a  cottage  door  is  shut 

In  the  face  iv  Pedlar  Dan. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  69 

Through  the  lin'th  an'  bre'th  o'  Wicklow 

Sthravin'  day  by  day, 

An'  the  pedlar's  pack  upon  me  back 

Is  paying*  me  honest  way. 

It's  not  for  the  bit  o'  gold  I  aim 

That  I  choose  to  be  roving'  free, 

But  the  kindly  welkim  I  niver  lack 

Is  betther  nor  gold  to  me. 

"If  ye  would  go  to  Dublin  city" — 
Says  sthrangers,  now  an'  then, 
"Ye'ed  have  more  of  gold  an'  comfort 
Thin  ye  get  here  in  the  glen." 
Mayhap  of  gold  would  be  plinty 
But  I  am  not  needn'f  more 
Whin  I  know  there's  a  kindly  welkim 
Waitin'  at  ivery  doyr. 

An'  I'm  thinkin'  'twould  be  a  cold  comfort 
The  city's  sthreets  would  yield, 
An'  me  achin'  the  childhern 
Come  romping'  acrost  the  field. 
I  am  well  contint  to  spind  me  days 
Where  the  kindly  people  love  me, 
An'  sleep  at  last  in  the  Wicklow  hills 
Wid  the  daisy  quilt  above  me. 

Through  the  lin'th  and  bre'th  o'  Wicklow 

Sthravagin'  from  year  to  year, 

Aitin'  the  bread   i'   kindness, 

An'  sharin'  a  hearty  cheer. 

I  wouldn't  give  place  to  the  king,  no  less, 

Whin  the  summer  skies  are  o'er  me, 

Whin  I've  an  ould  clay  cutly  bechune  me  teeth 

An  the  lin'th  o'  the  day  afore  me. 


Robert  V.  Carr 

Biographical — Born,  Illinois,  1880.  Came  to  Dakota  with 
parents  in  1890.  Settled  at  Rapid  City.  Attended  public 
schools  at  Rapid  City,  also  the  State  School  of  Mines  located 
at  that  place.  Served  with  South  Dakota  Infantry  in  the 
Philippines.  Upon  return  home  became  engaged  in  editorial 
work,  being  associated  at  various  times  with  the  St.  Paul 
Dispatch,  the  Chicago  Evening  Post  and  the  Denver  Times. 
Later  became  editor  of  the  Whitewood  (S.  D.)  Plaindealer. 
Sold  out.  Identified  with  the  International  Livestock  Ex- 
position Company,  Chicago.  Resigned.  Married.  Lives  in 
Pasedena,  Cal. 


ROBERT  V.  CARR 

The  W.  B.  Conkey  Company,  of  Chicago,  in 
1908,  brought  out  a  neat  volume  of  South  Dakota 
poems,  entitled  "Cow  Boy  Lyrics,"  written  by  Robert 
V.  Carr.  It  contains  110  poems,  classified  under 
four  heads— "Ranch  and  Range,"  "On  the  Trail  of 
Love,"  "Where  the  Chinook  Blows,"  and  "On  the 
Trail  of  Yesterday."  The  editorial  reviews  of  this 
book  were  exceptionally  flattering  far  and  wide. 
Said  Byron  Williams  in  the  Western  Publisher: 

"Fresh  with  the  tang  and  the  incense  of  the 
prairie  breeze,  jingling  with  the  rhythmic  spur  and 
the  clacking  bit  of  the  plains,  redolent  of  the  ro- 
mance of  the  open  country  and  as  true  to  the  pulsing 
heart  of  the  great-hearted  west  as  the  needle  to  the 
poles,  comes  Robert  V.  Carr's  new  book  of  verse, 
'Cowboy  Lyrics/ 

"Gentleness,  friendship,  hospitality,  truth! 
These  are  the  beautiful  chests  of  treasure  in  the 
heart  of  Carr — Carr,  who  as  a  lad  was  a  part  of  the 
free  life  of  the  prairie,  breathing  in  the  atmosphere 
and  the  color  of  the  cowboy  life.  He  rode  among 
the  men  and  became  one  of  them  in  spirit  and. 
thought — except  that  in  him  there  burned  the  light 
of  genius,  the  power  to  weave  into  song  the  poetry 
of  the  range.  And  so  he  has  given  us  'Cow-boy 
Lyrics',  told  from  the  gentleness  and  the  truth  of  his 


72  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

heart,  that  we  may  see  what  he  saw  as  he  lay  upon 
his  back  on  the  prairie  and  gazing  far  overhead  into 
the  heaven's  blue,  roped  the  beauties  and  the  secrets 
of  plain  and  camp,  morning  and  evening,  sunset  and 
dawn." 

The  gifted  Helen  Marie  Bennett,  commenting 
on  this  volume  of  verse  in  the  Deadwood  Pioneer- 
Times,  said: 

"A  stranger  seeing  the  picturesque  title  would 
soon  find  himself  wandering  with  this  'Careless 
Border  Cavelier'  over  the  sage  brush  flats,  building 
campfires  with  him  in  the  hills,  riding  the  ranges 
at  night,  and  even  pausing  with  awed  breath  on  the 
edge  of  the  Bad  Lands  country,  the  land  'Where  God 
plays  solitaire/  The  stranger  would  be  surprised  at 
the  wealth  of  imagery,  the  touches  of  real  pathos, 
the  flashes  of  quaint  humor,  the  vivid  strokes  which 
place  a  picture  instantly  before  the  eye,  and  the  real 
poetic  feeling  that  abounds  within  the  covers  of 
'Cowboy  Lyrics/  But  the  many  friends  of  'Bob' 
Carr,  both  within  the  Black  Hills  and  out  of  them 
are  not  surprised  at  the  amount  of  excellent  work 
which  he  has  brought  out,  for  they  have  believed  all 
along  that  the  day  would  not  be  long  in  coming  when 
his  work  would  be  widely  known  and  as  widely  ap- 
preciated." 

The  following  poems,  taken  from  "Cowboy 
Lyrics,"  will  suffice  to  give  his  natural,  inviting 
style : 


POETS  AND  POETRY  73 

THE  WIDOW'S  LOT 

Mis'  Pike  jes'  called— the  first  time  fer 
A  month  o'  Sundays  I've  seen  her — 
She  took  on  scan'luss  about  me 
A-livin'  here  alone  an'  she 
Jes'  upped  an'  said  a  ranch  was  not 
A  place  fer  widders,  an'  she  sot 
An'  harped  on  that  one  string  'til  I 
Jes'  shut  her  mouth  with  tea  an'  pie. 


Poor  William's  dead  nigh  on  a  year, 

But  I  can't  say  I'm  pinin'  here; 

An'  law  me!  what's  a  soul  to  do, 

What's  goin'  onto  forty-two? 

Fer  who'll  dispoot  a  real  live  man 

Around  a  ranch  is  handy,  an' 

Jack  Plummer  says  to  me  last  night — 

He  jes'  stopped  in  to  get  a  bite 

0'  chicken  pie — he  says,  says  he: 

"You  ain't  a  day  o'er  twenty- three." 

But  Jack  is  such  a  josher  that 

He's  allers  talkin'  thro'  his  hat. 


The  other  day  Bill  Howe  drove  by, 
An'  said  the  cricks  were  jes'  bank  high, 
An'  he'd  a  four-hoss  load  an'  he 
Declared  he'd  leave  some  truck  with  me, 
A  sack  o'  flour  an'  some  corn, 
A  sack  o'  sugar  which  was  torn, 
Which  Bill  jes'  vowed  would  go  to  waste 
Unless  sweet  things  was  to  my  taste. 


74  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

A  week  ago  John  Nye  drove  in — 
His  heart  is  big  if  he  is  thin — 
He  said  he'd  butchered  an'  he  thought 
A  side  o'  beef  an'  bacon  ought 
To  nohow  meet  with  my  refuse, 
Since  he  had  more  than  he  could  use. 

An'  there's  Hank  Dalley,  ev'ry  day 
He  sort  o'  drops  in  that-o-way, 
To  see  if  there's  a  chore  to  do, 
An*  then  jes*  stays  the  whole  day  thro'; 
An'  jes'  flares  up  when  I  talk  "pay," 
Fer  Hank's  right  touchy,  an'  he'll  say: 
"I  haven't  got  a  thing  to  do, 
It's  exercise  to  work  fer  you." 

An'  so  between  them  all,  you  see, 
There's  lots  that's  worser  off  than  me; 
The  ranch  is  clear,  an'  eggs  an'  truck 
Bring  prices  high,  an'  then  I've  luck 
With  all  my  stock,  that's  bound  to  grow — 
But  yet  there's  one  thing  which  I  know, 
An'  might  as  well  say  to  your  face, 
A  man's  most  handy  'round  a  place; 
But  William's  gone  an'  there's  no  more — 
Land  sakes!     There's  Dalley  at  the  door! 


THE  TRYST 

I've  ridden  since  the  day  throwed  back 

The  trailers  of  the  night, 
An'  what  fer,  shall  I  tell  you, 

In  a  stampede  o'  delight? 
To  wait  out  by  the  cottonwoods, 

An'  dove-call  softly  to 
A  girl  I  know  will  answer: 

"I'm  a-comin',  boy,  to  you." 


POETS  AND  POETRY  75 

'Twas  no  time  to  spare  my  bronco; 

His  breathin'  spells  were  brief; 
He's  white  with  foam  an'  shakin' 

Like  the  Chinook  shakes  the  leaf. 
Fer  I've  splashed  through  muddy  rivers, 

An'  loped  across  divides, 
An'  ridden  where  no  puncher 

In  his  reason  ever  rides. 

Thro'  walkers  caked  with  gumbo, 

The  buffalo  once  knew; 
Thro'  water  holes  an'  washouts, 

An'  a-boggin'  in  the  slew. 
O'er  alkali  an'  sage  brush  flats 

I  cut  the  whistlin'  breeze, 
An'  come  straight  as  the  eagle 

When  his  lady  bird's  to  please. 

I'm  a-watchin'  an'  I'm  waitin' 

With  heart  as  light  as  air, 
As  happy  as  they  make  'em, 

Either  here  or  anywhere. 
Jes'  to  listen  fer  her  footfall, 

An'  hear  her  sweet  voice  thro' 
The  prairie  silence  murmur, 

"I'm  a-comin',  boy,  to  you." 

THE  BAD  LANDS 

Bluffs   of  ochre  and  brown  and  red, 

In  varied  glory  flare, 
For  here  is  the  land  of  mystery, 

Where  God  plays  solitaire. 

A  gray  plain  and  a  soft  mirage, 

In  the  blue  haze  over  there, 
For  here  is  the  land  of  lonesomeness, 

Where  God  plays  solitaire. 


76  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

A  muddy  butte  and  shapes  that  come 

And  at  the  sunset  stare, 
For  here  is  the  land  of  forgotten  pasts, 

Where    God    plays    solitaire. 

A  silence  that  dwarfs  the  soul  of  man, 
Oh,  the  silence  everywhere! 

For  here  is  the  land  of  things  unsolved, 
Where  God  plays  solitaire. 


One  more  poem  of  Carr's,  entitled  "The  Dead 
Magdalene,"  published  during  1915  in  a  standard 
magazine,  is  herein  also  preserved,  because  of  its 
truthful  portrayal  of  an  unfortunate  life. 

THE  DEAD  MAGDALENE 

Death  has  claimed  thee  for  his  own, 
Woman,  thou  dost  grace  that  stone — 
The  morgue's  cold  stone. 

Silent  are  those  lips  that  drew 
Pleasure-seeking  youth  to  you; 
And  those  hands  that  lovers  pressed 
Lie  like  lilies  on  thy  breast. 
Thy  face  looks  old;  there  Sin's  own  sign 
Is  traced  in  cunning,  cruel  line; 
Altho'  a  score  would  span  thy  years, 
Those  eyes  hath  known  an  age  of  tears. 

A  suicide,  the  good  pass  by 
With  close-drawn  robes,  as  tho'  the  cry 
That  lepers  whine,  "Unclean!  Unclean!" 
Was  voiced  by  thee.     The  canting,  lean- 
Souled  egotist  doth  draw  full  well 


POETS  AND  POETRY  77 

The  moral  he  dear  loves  to  tell. 
And  they  who  live  a  life  of  shame 
In  every  way,  except  in  name, 
Look  on  thy  white,  stark  body  there 
With  pious  self-esteeming  stare. 

Scarlet  one,  the  night  is  done, 
The  wearing  race  with  Fate  is  run; 
The  lights  are  dead,  the  dancers  gone, 
Comes  now  the  gray,  funeral  dawn. 
Dream  horrid  visions  of  the  end, 
And  black  dispair  to  tear  and  rend 
Thy  weary  heart;  then  dost  thou  call: 
"There  is  no  hope— Death  stilleth  all!" 

Like  some  sad  bird  with  broken  wing 
Thou  welcomest  the  adder  sting 
Of  Death — kind  Death. 

Fallen  one,  there  was  a  day 

When  thou  wert  pure,  no  shadow  lay 

Across  thy  path;  there  came  to  thee 

No  blinding,  tinseled  mockery. 

In  Eden  thou  didst  walk  alone, 

To  thee  the  serpent  was  unknown — 

When  lo!  the  shining  coils  arise! 

The  baleful  orbs  hold  fast  thine  eyes! 

And  under  their  satanic  spell 

An  angel  treads  the  path  to  hell. 

Who  hath  the  right  to  loud  proclaim 
Eternal  judgment  on  thy  shame? 
Who  hath  the  right  to  judge  of  thee 
When   thou  hast  paid  the   penalty? 
For  yet  to  heights  thou  may  arise, 
And  walk  again  in  paradise. 


78  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Another  earlier  volume  of  Carr's  poems  was  his 
"Black  Hills'  Ballads." 

Since  the  publication  of  his  last  book  of  poems  in 
1908,  Carr  has  laid  aside  that  style  of  composition  to 
a  large  extent  and  has  given  considerable  of  his  time 
to  prose.  His  short  story,  entitled  "Triplets  Tri- 
umphant," which  appeared  in  the  September,  1914, 
issue  of  Everybody's  Magazine,  is  regarded  by  all 
who  read  it  as  one  of  the  strongest  short  stories 
which  appeared  that  year. 


<  • 
/.  • 


Will  Chamberlain 

Biographical — Born,  Bradford  county,  Pa.,  July  6,  1865. 
Removed  to  Dakota  in  1871.  Raised  on  a  farm  in  the  Sioux 
Valley.  Educated  in  the  village  schools  of  Union  county; 
later  studied  at  the  University  of  South  Dakota.  In  1891, 
married  Miss  Mattie  Ericson.  Father  of  two  children — a 
boy  and  a  girl.  Farmer;  also  a  teacher.  Held  principalships 
at  Jefferson,  Avon,  and  Lesterville. 


WILL  CHAMBERLAIN 

Will  Chamberlain  is  a  free  thinker — an  original 
writer.  His  prose  and  his  poetry  each  possess  a 
strong  individuality.  He  has  written  short  stories, 
sketches  and  poetry  for  The  National  Magazine,  The 
Springfield  (S.  D)  Republican,  and  the  Literary 
Magazine.  He  has  also  written  dozens  (it  might 
be  more  proper  to  say,  hundreds)  of  special  articles 
for  the  Dakota  Republican  of  Vermillion,  for  the 
Elk  Point  Courier  and  for  the  Aberdeen  Daily 
American.  For  several  years  he  has  been  furnishing 
a  set  of  "Wayside  Notes"  each  week  for  the  Sioux 
City  Journal.  These  notes  are  very  original  and  are 
intensely  interesting.  Many  of  his  best  poems  have 
appeared  in  them.  Following  is  one  that  is  some- 
what unique : 

THE  GOSSIPER 

Now  let  us  pause  to  consider 

The  gossip  a  little  while, 
Think  of  her  tattle  bitter, 

Measure  her  knowing  smile; 
Gauge  her  by  rule  and  level, 

Mete  out  her  proper  place — 
Whether  she  be  of  the  devil 

Or  almost  an  angel  of  grace; 
Whether  she  be  an  evil 

Of  consummate  design, 
Or  a  type  of  half  evangel, 

A  self-called  priestess,  in  fine. 


82  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Well,  first  of  all,  as  a  talker 

She's  rather  clever  you  say, 
A  dealer  in  tales,  a  shocker 

Of  preconceived  notions,  a  gay 
And  heart  to  heart  coming  neighbor, 

That  meets  you  across  the  fence 
With  a  tongue  as  keen  as  a  saber 

And  a  mind  for  the  present  tense. 
Her  sins — they  doubtless  are  scarlet, 

And   yet   I   sometimes   believe 
That  many  a  maid  and  varlet, 

Whose  standing  she  seems  to  grieve, 
Are  kept  from  deeper  scandal, 

From  more  impious  plot 
Because  this  female  vandal 

Has  a  tongue  that  is  quick  and  hot. 
And  tho'  she  if  often  harmful, 

A  virago  of  unrest, 
A  tattler  and  vixen  shameful, 

Whose  orbit  is  most  unblest, 
I  still  have  a  nebulous  notion 

That  her  sphere  is  misunderstood, 
That  the  yarns  she  sets  in  motion 

May  turn  to  be  gems  of  good, 
That  even  some  stars  of  glory 

Upon  her  head  may  dwell, 
When  heaven  reveals  the  story 

Of  mortals  she  scared  from  hell. 


Chamberlain  is,  first  of  all,  a  philosopher.  His 
poetry  is  minus  the  wit  of  Holmes',  the  jingle  of 
Mrs.  Tatro's,  the  fervor  of  Lawton's  and  the  poetic 
diction  of  WenzlafF s.  It  is  just  plain  philosophy  all 
the  while.  One  has  to  labor  to  read  it;  however, 
the  more  you  read  it  the  better  you  like  it. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  83 

He  was  reared  in  the  Big  Sioux  Valley.  Like 
all  true  poets  he  loves  nature.  "How  dear  to  (his) 
heart  are  the  scenes  of  (his)  childhood."  He  was 
fascinated  with  the  old  river.  In  the  spring  and 
fall,  he  hunted  ducks  on  it ;  in  the  summer,  he  swam 
in  it,  sat  on  its  grass-laden  banks  and  caught  fish 
out  of  it;  while  in  the  winter  his  steel  skates  were 
made  to  ring  on  its  icy  bosom.  It  is,  therefore, 
natural,  when  he  first  began  to  write  poetry,  that 
this  old  stream,  along  whose  banks  he  had  spent  so 
many  happy  hours,  should  have  suggested  itself  to 
him  as  his  constant  theme.  His  "Down  by  the 
Sioux,"  his  "Night  on  the  Sioux"  and  his  "in  the 
Valley  of  the  Sioux"  are  rich, heritages  of  his  re- 
flections over  his  childhood  days.  The  first  two  of 
these  poems  follow: 

DOWN  BY  THE  SIOUX 

Down  by  the  old  Sioux  in  spring! 

When  the  bottom  land  is  spongy-like  and  damp 
And  ruined  haystacks  give  a  moment's  rest 

From  the  long,  swinging  tramp 
And  vantage   ground  to  wait  the  clattering  ducks, 

That  storm  across  the  timber  belt  and  swing, 
On  dropping  wings  above  the  water-splashed  prairie, 

Till  'frighted  by  the  grim  repeater's  ring. 

Along  the  Sioux!  how  oft  these  feet  have  strolled, 
Unmindful  of  the  striving  thoughts  of  those 

Who  give  their  footsteps  to  the  sounding  pave, 
Nor  pause  to  see  the  morning's  spreading  rose 


84  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Slip  down  the  bluffy  swales  to  greet 

The  sentinel  cottonwoods  and  willowy  hedge 

That  hold  in  sacred  guard  the  rude  survey, 
Where  Titan  marked  the  river's  winding  edge. 


NIGHT  ON  THE  SIOUX 

Softly  the  darkness  falls,  and  such  mild  dark! 

The  stars  have  scarce  a  need  their  veils  to  lift 
That  they  may  smile  upon  the  bended  mark 

Of  sinking  Luna.    The  thicket's  festooned  rift. 
Mellows,  the  major  of  the  thrush's  cry. 

While  the  dim  quaver  of  the  home  dove's  sigh, 
Waiting  the  coming  of  her  lover  true, 

Broods  like  enchantment  o're  the  fading  Sioux. 

Silver  and  purple  now  the  river  drifts;  so  calm 

The  skies  that  hover  o'er!    I  fain  would  lie 
Here  by  myself  and  know  the  stealing  balm 

Of  that  intrepid  mood  that  would  defy 
The  clustered  memories  of  care,  and  put  aside 

The  iron  law  which  doth  our  joy  divide 
With  rudest  glee.     Find  thou,  my  heart, 

The  solace  this  dear  moment  doth  impart. 


The  following  poem,  entitled,  "To  A  Tiny 
Sleeper,"  is  among  Chamberlain's  best.  It  is  beauti- 
fully conceived  and  tastily  expressed.  In  it  one 
cannot  fail  to  see  the  little  sleeper  lying  before  him 
with  closed  eyes  and  with  its  tiny  hands  clutched 
gently  in  the  lace  of  its  baby  night  robe.  Then  the 
poet  causes  the  reader  to  lift  his  own  eyes  and  look 
penitently  into  the  future. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  85 

TO  A  TINY  SLEEPER 

Dear  little  one,  thy  eyelids   sweet 

Are  closed  in  sleep,  in  holy  calm, 
No  worldly  waves  of  trouble  beat 

Upon  thy  dreaming's  Gilead  balm 
The  fingers  of  the  summer  breeze 

Most  softly  toy  with  thy  lips, 
But  bear  no  taint  of  sorrow's  lees 

To  crown  thy  hour  with  dark  eclipse. 

I  know  that  I  have  wandered  far 

'Mid  vain  illusions  of  the  world, 
The  dust  of  sin  has  left  its  mar 

Upon  my  hands,  but  thine  are  curled' 
Twin  lillies  on  thy  bosom's  nest, 

Pink  tendrils  clutching  dainty  lace, 
Frail  blossoms  folded  into  rest 

Beside  the  beauty  of  thy  face. 

Oh,  when  the  time  of  endless  sleep 

Shall  hail  me  in  the  worldly  throng 
From  out  Eternity's  vast  deep, 

Not  manhood's  efforts  bold  and  strong 
May  be  my  guidon  most  sure, — 

Fair  Christ,  forget  my  later  ills, 
And  make  me  as  this  wee  one  pure, 

When  Death  my  heart  forever  stills. 


No  doubt  Chamberlain's  strongest  poem,  and 
the  one  on  which  his  reputation  as  a  poet,  must  ulti- 
mately rest,  is  his  "Reflections  In  A  Prairie  Ceme- 
tery." This  poem  was  written  for  the  Dakota  Re- 
publican. Later  it  was  reproduced  by  the  Big  Stone 
Headlight.  Mr.  Aldrich,  editor  of  the  latter  paper, 


86  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

himself  a  graduate  of  the  State  College  at  Brookings 
and  a  fine  literary  critic,  in  reproducing  the  poem, 
said  editorially :  "We  publish  at  the  head  of  the  edit- 
orial column  a  poem  by  Will  Chamberlain,  which,  in 
thought  and  diction,  approaches  Gray's  'Elegy  In  A 
Country  Churchyard.' ' 

REFLECTIONS  IN  A  PRAIRIE  CEMETERY 

I  saw  a  rustic  train  wind  solemnly 

Along  a  way  where  harvest  whispers  stole 

Some  spirit  lorn  had  claimed  its  liberty, 
Another  heart  had  doffed  its  gift  of  dole. 

The  circled  mourners  stood  in  awkward  grace 
The  sturdy  men  uncovered  in  the  sun, 

The  sallow  preacher  found  his  studied  place 
And  plaintively  the  final  rite  begun: 

"Dust  unto  dust!     we  here  for  aye  consign 
Within  the  bosom  of  our  mother  earth." 

The  frail  cup  falls  and  spills  the  scarlet  wine, 
Lost  for  distillment  in  a  crystal  birth. 

"Dust  unto  dust"  and  lo!     the  shocking  cold 
Rings  darkly  down  an  orphaned  cry  replies, 

"Dust  unto  dust" — a  soul  leaps  up  to  God — 
The  ultimatum  of  its  life's  emprise. 

I  saw  the  simple  folk  with  sighing  flee, 

To  labor's  calls  they  hurried  here  or  there. 

Their  echoed  going  smote  the  upland  lea, 
And  busy  tales  hummed  on  the  pearly  air. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  87 

Careless  of  wealth  or  crinkling  sheaves  I  stayed, 
Idly  to  trace  the  streets  of  carven  stone — 

Telling  where  those  eternally  delayed 
Slept  on  and  on  f orevermore  alone. 

Slept  on  and  on,  where  never  breaking  morn 
Peeps  thro'  the  curtains,  or  the  dawn  beams  fall: 

Of  ev'ry  'hope  and  mem'ry  mutely  shorn, 
Save  only  Love's  immortal-wafted  call. 

Hours  into  ages  here  shall  slowly  creep, 

E'en  dimpled  flesh  be  changed  to  thinnest  dust, 

While  o'er  this  nameless,  awful  nook  of  sleep, 
Man's  lips  still  frame  a  wordless  prayer  of  trust. 

A  faith,  a  hope  that  when  a  dear  one  sinks 

From  mother  arms  that  clasped  and  fondled  so 

To  drift  beyond  those  vast,  uncharted  brinks, 
A  Father's  care  will  with  the  jewel  go. 

A  faith  that  not  a  pilgrim  hither  dares, 
Tho'  life's  span  be  a  tiny  day  or  years. 

But  there's  a  watchful  Pilot  knows  how  fares, 
And  thence  a  lifting  Canaan  sweetly  cheers. 

Out  of  the  fields  the  reapers'  voices  came, 

The  lance-like  shuttles  of  the  harvest  gleamed 

The  stubble  bent  beneath  the  clanking  game, 
The  sable  cricket  in  his  straw-cot  dreamed. 

As  rosy  even  bathed  each  quiet  tomb, 

Changing  to  crimson  wreath  or  angel  form 

I  left  this  Home  of  Peace  to  gentle  gloom, 
Perchance  the  wild  caprice  of  hinted  storm. 


88  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Yet  did  I  know  that  pelt  of  sheeted  rain, 
Nor  whirl  of  blast  could  ever  taunt  or  wake 

The  tenants  of  those  chambers  where  no  pain, 
Lie  tortured  tides  in  foamy  spoil,  may  break. 

From  distant  climes  they  journeyed  to  this  spot 
Or  braved  the  seas  'neath  soft  grass  here  to  lie,- 

A  western  sky  above  the  little  plot 

And  springtime  blossoms  lifting  forth  to  die. 


It  seems  best  to  preserve  in  our  state  literature 
a  few  more  of  the  many  dozens  of  Chamberlain's 
poems.  These  follow: 

TO  A  BABY  ASLEEP 

O  little  one  in  sleep's  embrace, 

How  peaceful  is  thy  rounded  face, 
How  softly  droops  each  pearly  lid 

O'er  eyes  from  any  sorrow  hid, 
How  like  a  rosebud  are  the  lips 

Where  love,  a  greedy  bee,  oft  sips! 
Beneath  a  film  of  lace  I  spy 

The  fingers'  chubby  witchery. 

Before  thee,  dear  heart,  lies  a  world 

Where  envy's  arrows  oft  are  hurled, 
Where  grief  and  pain  cry  for  redress 

From  unseen  loads  that  grimly  press, 
And  where  the  proud  at  times  appear 

To  win,  while  those  who  by  faith  steer 
Battle  with  tide  or  fog  or  surf, 

The  scorned  and  buffeted  of  earth. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  89 

I  tremble,  sweetheart,  when  I  think 

That  thou,  too,  art  a  tiny  link 
Of  this  vast  chain  of  human  life, 

A  wee  strand  in  the  braid  of  strife, 
And  that,  ere  long,  from  honeyed  dream 

Thou  must  awake  and  on  the  stream 
Of  time  that  boils  and  flings  its  foam 

Sink  'neath  the  surge  or  find  a  home. 

AN  OLD  FIREPLACE 
Here  gathered  in  the  vanished  days 

A  household  circle  glad, 
Whose  faces,  brightened  by  the  blaze, 

With  added  smiles  were  clad; 
And  when  the  embers  dimly  glowed, 

As  western  sunlight  pales, 
Like  wine  of  accents  gently  flowed 

The  stream  of  fireside  tales. 

Old  hearth  of  buried  memories 

And  shrine  of  silent  forms, 
On  recollection's  scented  breeze, 

Through  years  of  sun  and  storms, 
Comes  back  to  me,  as  here  I  stand, 

The  gold  of  precious  nights — 
Content  and  joy.     O  genial  band 

Of  sacred  home  delights. 


JUST  BE  THANKFUL 

If  you  cannot  see  that  blessings 

Have  been  scattered  at  your  door, 
If  for  others  bloomed  the  harvest 

While  your  lot  was  scant  and  sore, 
Try  to  trust  that  skies  will  open 

To  dispel  your  dark  dismay — 
Keep  a  brave  soul,  O,  my  fellow! 

Just  be  thankful  anyway. 


90  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

If  your  friendship  met  betrayal 

And  your  eyes  bent  to  the  sod 
And  you  turn  to  throne  the  cynic 

In  your  heart  instead  of  God, 
Hesitate,  a  laughing  sunbeam 

Soon  may  flash  across  your  day, 
But  if  still  the  clouds  do  hover 

Just  be  thankful  anyway. 

Just  be  thankful!     Just  be  thankful! 

Be  unselfish,  lend  a  hand, 
It  was  faith  that  crowned  the  angels, 

Faith  gave  every  promised  land. 
Tho'  your  neighbor  lolls  in  honey 

While  your  life  is  far  from  gay, 
Chant  your  prayers  and  meet  the  battle, 

Just  be  thankful  anyway. 


NO  POCKETS  IN  A  SHROUD 

Great  is  your  endless  struggle 

And  deep  are  your  plans,  O  men, 
Catching  at  scheme  and  bubble 

Or  plotting  with  brain  and  pen 
To  win  from  nature's  garner, 

By  pilfering  means  or  proud, 
A  golden  smile,  but  remember 

No  pockets  are  in  a  shroud. 

In  many  a  crag-set  mountain 

Are  silver  and  gold  good  store, 
Which,  like  a  steaming  fountain, 

Vast  riches  brightly  pour 
Into  clutching  hands  and  greedy, 

Yet,  at  last,  such  gifts  becloud, 
For,  be  it  rare  or  seedy, 

No  pockets  bedeck  a  shroud. 


1  POETS  AND  POETRY  91 

O,  as  you  sow,  my  brother, 

The  same,  God's  time,  you'll  reap, 
Tho'  the  spirit  you  rudely  smother, 

Or  with  lullabies  bid  it  sleep, 
The  voice  of  the  soul  will  haunt  you 

And  its  pleadings  be  reproduced, 
When  the  sunset's  glow  reminds  you 

That  chickens  come  home  to  roost. 

Live  not  then  for  the  glimmer 

Of  treasures  which  but  debase, 
For  beyond  death's  misty  river 

When  you  meet  Christ  face  to  face, 
You  cannot  buy  one  favor; 

Yea,  in  all  that  motley  crowd 
There'll  be  naught  to  even  savor 

Of  a  pocket  in  a  shroud. 


THE  CHARITY  OF  BLOSSOMS 

I  saw  a  lily  blooming 

Within  a  prison  cell, 
And  though  the  pure  hearts'  emblem, 

As  poets  love  to  tell, 
Its  sweetness  was  untainted, 

Its  splendor  undefiled, 
Nor  did  it  blush  nor  tremble, 

But  kindly,  meekly  smiled. 

I  saw  a  blossom  growing 

Beside  the  simple  mound 
Of  one  men  called  a  failure, 

Whom  wealth  had  never  found, 
But  it  was  nodding  gently 

And  less  inclined  to  fade 
Than  if  its  tender  beauty 

Had  graced  some  towering  shade. 


92  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

In  a  dim  place  where  hunger 

Oft  pinched  a  human  brood, 
I  saw  a  calm-faced  worker, 

Sped  by  a  Christy  mood, 
Put  down  a  mission's  bounty, 

While,  caught  amidst  the  fare, 
A  knot  of  dewy  roses 

Scented  the  hovel's  air. 


THE  BROKEN  CIRCLE 

Oh,  that  home  was  but  a  cottage 

Where  a  happy  streamlet  played, 
Laughing  o'er  the  golden  pebbles, 

Singing  in  the  sylvan  shade; 
Ah,  how  careless  of  the  future 

Was  each  tanned  and  childish  brow, 
But  alas!  those  days  are  vanished 

And  the  circle's  broken  now. 

How  deep  scented  were  the  meadows, 

And  how  breezy  were  the  lanes 
That  we  followed  with  the  cattle, 

Days  of  sunshine  or  of  rains! 
Yet  'tis  all  in  recollection, 

Time  required  a  sterner  vow 
Than  was  made  beheading  bluebells, 

And  the  circle's  broken  now. 

There  are  vacant  chairs  and  corners* 

There  are  little  mounds  and  slabs, 
There  are  dewy  wedding  blossoms, 

There  are  rosy  hues  and  drabs. 
While  life's  strange  and  mystic  records 

Eyes  bedim  or  hearts  endow, 
As  we  linger  o'er  the  mem'ry 

Of  a  circle  broken  now. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  93 

Broken,  broken!  cries  the  spirit, 

Never  here  to  be  repaired 
By  the  cunning  of  a  workman 

Or  by  one  who  in  it  shared; 
But  we  look  beyond  the  sunset, 

Hoping  sometime  and  somehow 
We  may  murmur  of  that  circle 

That  it  isn't  broken  now. 


THE  OLD  HOME  FOLKS 

Not  on  the  chance  acquaintance, 
Nor  yet  on  the  new  found  friend, 

When  the  storms  about  us  gather 
For  comfort  may  we  depend. 

If  I  should  be  permitted, 
Aside  from  all  light  jokes, 

To  choose  for  you  the  truest, 
I  would  pick  the  old  home  folks. 

From  them  I  would  name  a  husband 
For  the  dimpled,  would-be  bride; 

A  childhood  mate  or  •  sweetheart, 
In  whom  she  might  confide. 

The  old  home  folks  are  surest 

To  notice  if  we  succeed, 
And  they  are  the  first  to  sorrow 

With  us  when  our  hearts  do  bleed. 


So  do  not  be  quick  in  forsaking 
The  faithfully  tried  for  the  new, 

Who  may  seem  so  apt  and  clever 
When  the  skies  are  soft  and  blue. 


94  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

For  tho'  it  is  said  the  prophet 
Has  honor  except  at  home, 

Love  blossoms  there  for  the  masses — 
The  prophet  afar  may  roam. 

And  when  in  the  fading  twilight 
We  put  off  life's  stern  yokes, 

Those  who  will  stand  to  us  closest 
Will  be  the  old  home  folks. 

While  away  on  shiny  hilltops, 
By  Elysian  breezes  fanned, 

God's  own  home  folks  will  greet  us 
With  a  smile  and  outstretched  hand. 


Mrs.  Almira  J.  Dickinson 

Biographical — Almira  J.  Dickinson  (nee  Patterson),  born 
Fishkill,  Dutchess  county,  N.  Y.,  1832.  Removed  to  Ontario, 
LaGrange  county,  Ind.,  1847.  Attended  LaGrange  Institute. 
Began  teaching  in  1848.  Taught  six  years,  carrying  some 
studies  in  meantime.  Married  Eugene  Dickinson,  1854.  Mother 
of  four  sons.  Prominent  member  Christian  Science  church. 
Correspondent  for  many  years  for  numerous  magazines  and 
leading  newspapers.  Author  of  five  books  and  booklets. 
Removed  to  Dakota,  1888.  Settled  at  Chamberlain.  Husband 
died  in  1890.  She  filed  on  claim  in  Brule  county.  Still  re- 
sides on  homestead.  Direct  descendant  of  Israel  Putnam,  of 
Revolutionary  fame. 


MRS.  ALMIRA  J.  DICKINSON 

Mrs.  Dickinson's  poetry  is  of  that  scholarly, 
finished  character  which  appeals  to  the  mature  mind. 
It  is  deeply  imbedded  in  natural,  in  moral,  and  in 
psychic  philosophy.  Her  vocabulary  is  replete  with 
poesy,  and  her  diction  is  most  perfect.  She,  too,  like 
Clover  and  others,  is  a  writer  of  prose  as  well  as 
poetry;  she  was  formerly  a  newspaper  correspond- 
ent. For  several  years  she  wrote  for  the  Toledo 
Blade,  Loch's  National  Monthly,  the  Po'Keepsie 
Telegraph,  Omaha  Bee  and  the  Boston  Transcript, 
as  well  as  furnishing  poems  for  the  Home  Magazine 
and  other  publications. 

Her  first  booklet,  "Voices  of  the  Wind,"  met 
with  a  ready  sale.  She  followed  it  with  "A  Souvenir 
of  Dakota— The  Artesian  Wells,"  illustrated  in 
colors.  The  edition  was  so  quickly  exhausted  that 
she  promptly  brought  forth  her  "Voices  From  the 
Wheat  Fields."  It  made  a  charming  impression. 
Real  estate  men  bought  the  books  by  the  hundreds  to 
send  to  their  customers  for  Christmas  presents.  Her 
reputation  as  a  popular  author  was  rapidly  becom- 
ing established.  When  the  Christian  Science  church 
was  dedicated  in  Boston,  Mrs.  Dickinson  wrote  the 
dedicatory  poem  entitled  "Dedication  of  the  Mother 
Church  in  Boston."  This  strong  poem  was  later 
published  in  book  form,  with  handsomely  illustrated 


98  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

covers  in  colors,  and  it  has  been  sold  all  over  the 
United  States. 

In  the  course  of  time  it  was  suggested  by  her 
admiring  readers  that  she  collect  and  publish  her 
best  poems  all  in  one  volume.  This  she  did  in  1907, 
giving  to  it  the  title  "Ocean  and  Other  Poems."  It 
is  illustrated  in  colors,  and  is  by  far  the  finest  piece 
of  mechanical  work  that  has  appeared  in  a  book 
of  poems  within  the  state.  It  is  from  the  presses 
of  the  Ware  Brothers'  Company,  Philadelphia. 

In  it  the  author  starts  out  with  a  charming 
descriptive  poem  on  the  ocean,  proper,  and  then 
follows  it  with  these  poetic  theses  as  corroborative 
of  her  general  theme:  "A  Calm,"  "A  Storm,"  "In 
the 'Depths,"  "Influence  of  the  Moon,"  "Influence  of 
Gravity,"  "Influence  of  the  Sun." 

Mrs.  Dickinson's  poems,  in  general,  are  very 
lengthy,  making  reproduction  of  them  herein  quite 
impractical.  For  instance,  her  "Evelyne"  consists 
of  thirty-nine  eight-line  stanzas.  Its  language  is 
so  chaste  and  its  coloring  so  rich  and  beautiful  that 
the  first  three  stanzas  are  reproduced,  to  give  the 
reader  an  idea  of  its  charming  style  throughout. 

EVELYNE 

A  rosy  robe  the  sunset  hung 

Along  the  western  skies, 
And  clouds  of  flame  and  purple  flung 

To  earth  their  gorgeous  dyes, 


POETS  AND  POETRY  99 

Until  the  lakelet's  quiet  breast 
Was  buttoned  in  a  crimson  vest, 

And  hill  and  vale  and  village  spire 

Seemed  glowing  with  celestial  fire. 

But,  like  the  phases  of  a  dream, 

Those  tintings  passed  away, 
And  deep'ning  twilight  only  wore 

A  robe  of  sober  gray. 
And  twilight  dews,  like  angel  tears, 
Shed  for  the  gathered  crime  of  years, 

And  prompted  by  a  holy  love, 

Fell  from  the  pitying  heavens  above. 

The  moon  hung  in  the  jeweled  sky, 

A  radiant  orb  of  light, 
Enshrouding  all  my  garden  flowers 

In  robes  of  silver  white. 
And  lightly  at  the  open  door 
Its  snowflakes  sifted  on  the  floor, 
As  in  the  happy  days  of  yore, 

Till  quick  on  memory's  bounding  track 

Youth's  golden  hours  came  thronging  back. 


The  buoyancy  with  which  she  approaches  some 
subjects  is  exhilarating  in  the  extreme.  From  her 
melancholly  surroundings  under  "the  Maple  Tree," 
wherein  she  says  (evidently  as  an  allusion  to  her 
dead  husband)  : 

Oh,  stern,  relentless  hand  of  death! 

Why  could  ye  not  have  spared 
One,  only  one,  who  could  with  me 

Life's  wilderness  have  shared? 


100  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

she  mounts  on  "Voices  of  the  Wind"  to  a  thrilling 
cadence  of  rapture.  This  poem  is  also  quite  lengthy. 
The  first  section  only  of  it  is  therefore  given: 

VOICES  OF  THE  WIND 

Listen  to  the  voices  of  the  wind, 

T©  the  thousand  changeful  voices  of  the 

spirit  of  the  wind. 
To  the  strange,  mysterious  voices, 
To  the  wild  and  angry  voices, 
To  the  sweet,  low,  pleading  voices  of  the 

spirit  of  the  wind. 
When  he  tunes  his  harp  to  sing 
For  the  ever-welcome  Spring, 
And  he  pipes  a  roundelay 
To  the  merry,  merry  May, 
Or  he  breathes  a  thrilling  tune 
In  the  leafy  bowers  of  June, 
How  the  waving  forest  answers, 

And  the  glad  trees  clap  their  hands! 
How  their  silken  plumes  and  tassels 
Bow  as  his  acknowledged  vassals, 
As  they  dance  a  glad  attendance 

To  his  softly-breathed  commands! 
How  he  whispers,  whispers,  whispers 

To  the  sleeping  infant  flowers! 
How  his  matins  and  his  vespers 

Carol  through  their  virgin  bowers 
How  he  trills,  till  he  fills 
All  their  heart  with  gentle  thrills, 
And  a  loving  secret  tells 
To  the  swinging  lily  bells! 
And  with  skillful  touch  uncloses 
All  the  petals  of  the  roses; 
And  they  lift  their  starry  eyes 


POETS  AND  POETRY  101 

In  a  rapture  of  surprise, 
And,  all  radiant  with  blushes, 
Spring  to  meet  their  ardent  lover 
Spring  to  greet  their  gentle  lover, 

The  sweet  spirit  of  the  wind. 
Thus,  through  spring  and  summer  hours, 
He,  the  lover  of  the  flowers, 

Is  forever  singing,  dancing 
In  their  leafy,  scented  bowers. 
Listen  to  the  voices  of  the  wind, 
To  the  loud,  imperious  voices  of  the 

spirit  of  the  wind. 
When  he  boldly  rushes  forth 
From  his  dwelling  in  the  north, 
How  he  blows  his  rattling  trumpet, 

And  he  beats  his  noisy  drum! 
How  he  shouts  and  screams  in  fury 
As,  without  a  judge  or  jury, 
He  condemns  the  bloom  and  verdure  in  his 
pathway  to  the  tomb. 


One    of    her    cheeriest    short    productions    is 
"Pumpkin  Pie"  which  we  give  in  full: 

PUMPKIN  PIE 

When  the  cool  November  breezes 
Bring  to  us  the  northern  freezes, 
And  the  prairie  verdure  ceases, 

And  departing  summer  sighs, 
Then  with  what  ecstatic  rapture 
We  the  golden  pumpkins  capture, 
And  we  store  them  in  the  cellar 

For  our  future  pumpkin  pies. 


102  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

'Twas  the  magic  of  a  fairy, 
With  a  form  so  light  and  airy, 
That  a  golden  pumpkin  changed  in- 

To  a  coach  so  snug  and  neat, 
And  informed  Miss  Cinderilla 
That  her  tears  were  vain  and  silly — 
If  she  wished  to  join  the  revels — 

In  the  coach  to  take  a  seat. 

So  our  girls — the  household  fairies — 
Each  a  golden  pumpkin  carries 
In  her  arms,  so  plump  and  snowy, 

Quite  ignoring  weight  and  size. 
And  with  slaughter  almost  tragic, 
And  with  skill  akin  to  magic, 
They  transform  those  golden  spheres  in- 

To  delicious  pumpkin  pies. 

Oh,  the  crust  so  crisp  and  puffy, 
With  its  contents  soft  and  fluffy, 
How   its   fragrant,    spicy   odors 

Lade  the  "palpitating  air!" 
How  its  contents,  brown  and  golden, 
Bring  to  mind  Thanksgiving  olden, 
When  this  pie,  by  all  assembled, 

Was  crowned  fairest  of  the  fare. 

Pies  of  apple,  plum  and  cherry, 
Spicy  mince  and  luscious  berry, 
Lemon  custard,  so  delicious 

That  for  more  you  often  sigh. 
But  if  you  would  know  perfection 
And  a  pie  without  objection, 
Choose  a  regular  old-fashioned 

Yankee  country  pumpkin  pie. 


Hamlin  Garland 

Biographical — Born,  West  Salem,  Wis.,  Sept.  16,  1860. 
At  seven  years  of  age  removed  with  parents  to  Winnesheik 
County,  Iowa.  Graduated,  Cedarville  Seminary,  Osage, 
Iowa,  1881.  Taught  school  1882-83,  in  Illinois.  Came  to 
South  Dakota  in  1883.  Took  claim,  McPherson  county,  Went 
Boston  fall  of  1884.  Studied  Literature  in  Boston  public 
library.  Came  West  again.  Wrote  short  stories  and  novels. 
Organize^  "Cliff  Dwellers'  Club,"  of  Chicago.  Removed  to 
New  York  in  1915. 


HAMLIN  GARLAND 

South  Dakota  justly  lays  claim  to  an  author 
who  has  won  a  national  reputation  in  the  Literary 
world,  Hamlin  Garland.  He  is  the  most  popular 
novelist  in  the  West,  aside  from  Harold  Belle 
Wright ;  and  yet,  solely  for  the  purpose  of  study,  we 
have  classified  him  among  the  poets. 

Although  Garland  was  educated  in  the  East, 
he  is  essentially  Western — western  by  birth,  western 
in  sympathy  and  western  in  style.  He  was  born  in 
Wisconsin;  when  a  young  man,  he  homesteaded  in 
Dakota.  The  scene  of  his  first  novel,  "Main-Traveled 
Roads,"  is  laid  in  South  Dakota.  His  mother  gave 
him  the  foundation  for  the  story.  He  sold  it  for 
seventy-five  dollars,  and  promptly  gave  her  one-half 
of  the  amount. 

Garland's  strength  rests  largely  in  his  uncon- 
ventionality.  He  boldly  sets  a  literary  style  of  his 
own.  He  makes  his  characters  real  instead  of  ideal 
and  analyzes  them  as  they  are.  The  West  was  look- 
ing for  this  kind  of  a  writer.  He  supplied  the  de- 
mand. 

It  is  due  Garland  to  list  herein  his  many  wide- 
read  novels,  to  date :  "Main-Traveled  Roads,"  "Jason 
Edwards,"  "A  Little  Norsk,"  "Prairie  Folks,"  "A 
Spoil  of  Office,"  "A  Member  of  the  Third  House," 
"Crumbling  Idols,"  "Rose  of  Dutcher's  Cooley," 


106  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

"Wayside  Courtships,"  "Ulysses  Grant"  (Biograph- 
ical), "The  Spirit  of  Sweet-Water,"  "The  Eagle's 
Heart,"  "Her  Mountain  Lover,"  "The  Captain  of  the 
Gray  Horse  Troop,"  "Hesper,"  "Light  of  the  Star," 
"The  Tyranny  of  the  Dark,"  "The  Long  Trail," 
"Money  Magic,"  "Boy  Life  on  the  Prairie,"  "The 
Shadow  World,"  "Trail  of  the  Gold-Seekers,"  "Victor 
Olnee's  Discipline,"  "Witche's  Gold"  (a  revised 
edition  of  "The  Spirit  of  Sweet- Water"),  "Cava- 
naugh,"  "Moccasin  Ranch"  (a  story  of  Dakota). 

With  all  of  these  books  to  his  credit,  plus  several 
dozen  charming  short  stories,  we  must,  nevertheless, 
for  our  purpose,  treat  him  as  a  poet  and  consider 
a  few  of  his  poems. 

THE  CRY  OF  THE  AGE 

(The    Outlook,    May    6,    1899.) 

What  shall  I  do  to  be  just? 

What  shall  I  do  for  the  gain 
Of  the  world — for  its  sadness? 
Teach  me,  O  Seers  that  I  trust! 

Chart  me  the  difficult  main 
Leading  out  of  my  sorrow  and  madness, 

Preach  me  the  purging  of  pain. 

Shall  I  wrench  from  my  finger  the  ring 

To  cast  to  the  tramp  at  my  door? 
Shall  I  tear  off  each  luminous  thing 

To  drop  in  the  palm  of  the  poor? 
What  shall  I  do  to  be  just? 

Teach  me,  O  ye  in  the  light, 
Whom  the  poor  and  the  rich  alike  trust: 

My  heart  is  aflame  to  be  right. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  107 

DEATH  IN  THE  DESERT 

(Munsey's,  June,    1901.) 

He  died  and  we  buried  him  there — 
In  the  sound  of  an  unnamed  stream; 

The  poison  plants  around  him  flare, 
And  the  silence  is  deep  as  death. 

Where  we  left  him  in  wordless  dream, 
With  a  "God  Speed"  spoken  underbreath. 

I  laid  a  flower  on  the  dead  man's  breast, 
While  the  eagles  whistled  in  shrill  dismay — 

Nothing  could  then  disturb  his  'rest; 

I  gave  him  the  rose,  and  we  covered  him  up 

With  the  cold,  black  earth,  and  rode  away. 
My  heart  was  bitter — I  could  not  weep. 

He  was  so  young  to  die  so  soon — 

He  was  so  gay  to  lie  alone 
Burned  by  sun  and  chilled  by  moon, 

There  where  the  waters  are  cold  and  gray, 
There  by  the  slimy  ledges  of  stone — 

But  there  he  must  sleep  till  the  sun  is  gray. 

PRAIRIE  CHICKENS 

(The   Independent,    October    5,    1893.) 

From  brown-plowed  hillocks 

In  early  red  morning, 
They  awoke  the  tardy  sower  with  this  cheerful  cry; 

A  mellow  boom  and  whoop 

That  held  a  warning — 
A  sound  that  brought  the  seed-time  very  nigh. 

The  circling,  splendid  anthem 

Of  their  greeting 
Ran  like  the  morning  beating  of  a  hundred  mellow  drums — 

Boom,  boom,  boom! 

Each  hillock  kept  repeating, 
Like  cannon  answering  cannon  when  the  golden  sunset  conies. 


108  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

They  drum  no  more, 

Those  splendid  spring-time  pickets; 
The  sweep  of  share  and  sickle  has  thrust  them  from  the  hills, 

They  have  scattered  from  the  meadow 

Like  partridge  in  the  thickets — 

They  have  perished  from  the  sportsman,  who  kills,  and  kills, 
and  kills! 

Often  now, 

When  seated  at  my  writing, 
I  lay  my  pencil  down  and  fall  to  dreaming  still 

Of  the  stern,  hard  days, 

Of  the  old-time  Iowa  seeding, 

When  the  prairie  chickens  woke  me  with  their  war-dance  on 
the  hill. 


BOY  LIFE  ON  THE  PRAIRIE 

I  saw  the  field   (as  trackless  then 

As  wood  to  Daniel  Boone) 

Wherein  we  hunted  wolves  as  men, 

And  camped  and  twanged  the  green  bassoon; 

Not  blither  Robin  Hood's  merry  horn 

Than  pumpkin  pie  amid  the  corn. 

In  central  deeps  the  melons  lay, 
Slow  swelling  in  the  August  sun. 
I  traced  again  the  narrow  way, 
And  joined  again  the  stealthy  run — 
The  jack-o'-lantern's  wraith  was  born 
Within  shadows  of  the  corn. 

O  wide,  sweet  wilderness  of  leaves! 
O  playmates  far  away!       Over  thee 
The  slow  wind  like  a  mourner  grieves, 
And  stirs  the  plumed  ears  fitfully. 
Would  we  could  sound  the  signal  horn 
And  meet  once  more  in  walls  of  corn! 


POETS  AND  POETRY  109 

MY  CABIN 

My  cabin  cowers  in  the  onward  sweep 

Of  the  terrible  northern  blast; 
Above  its  roof  the  wild  clouds  leap 

And  shriek  as  they  hurry  past. 
The  snow-waves  hiss  along  the  plain; 

Like  hungry  wolves  they  stretch  and  strain; 
They  race  and  ramp  with  rushing  beat; 

Like  stealthy  tread  of  myriad  feet 

They  pass  the  door.    Upon  the  roof 

The  icy  showers  swirl  and  rattle. 
At  times  the  moon,  though  far  aloof, 

Through  winds  and  snows  in  furious  battle 
Shines  white  and  wan  within  the  room — 

Then  swift  clouds  dart  across  the  light, 
And  all  the  plain  is  lost  to  sight; 

The  cabin  rocks,  and  on  my  palm 
The  sifted  snow  falls  cold  and  calm. 


God!  what  a  power  is  in  the  wind! 

I  lay  my  ear  to  the  cabin-side 
To  feel  the  weight  of  his  giant  hands; 

A  speck,  a  fly  in  the  blasting  tide 
Of  streaming,  pitiless  icy  sands; — 

A  single  heart  with  its  feeble  beat — 
A  mouse  in  the  lion's  throat — 
A  swimmer  at  sea — a  sunbeam's  mote 

In  the  strength  of  a  tempest  of  hail  and  sleet! 


110  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

COLOR  IN  THE  WHEAT 

Like  liquid  gold  the  wheat-field  lies, 

A  marvel  of  yellow  and  green, 
That  ripples  and  runs,  that  floats  and  flies, 

With  the  subtle  shadows,  the  change,  the  sheen 
That  plays  in  the  golden  hair  of  a  girl. 
A  cloud  flies  there — 
A  ripple  of  amber — a  flare 
Of  light  follows  after.     A  swirl 
In  the  hollows  like  the  twinkling  feet 

Of  a  fairy  waltzer;  the  colors  run 

To  the  westward  sun, 
Through  the  deeps  of  the  ripening  wheat. 

I  hear  the  reapers'  far-off  hum, 

So  faint  and  far  it  seems  the  drone 
Of  bee  or  beetle,  seems  to  come 

From  far-off,  fragrant,  fruity  zone, 
A  land  of  plenty,  where 
Toward  the  sun,  as  hasting  there, 
The  colors  run 
Before  the  wind's  feet 
In  the  wheat. 

The  wild  hawk  swoops 

To  his  prey  in  the  deeps; 
The  sunflower  droops 

To  the  lazy  wave;  the  wind  sleeps; 
Then,  moving  in  dazzling  links  and  loops, 

A  marvel  of  shadow  and  shine, 
A  glory  of  olive  and  amber  and  wine, 

Runs  the  color  in  the  wheat. 


Joseph  Mills  Hanson 

Biographical — Born,  Yankton,  S.  D.,  July  20,  1876. 
Educated  Chauncy  Hall  School,  Boston,  1889-90;  preparatory 
department  Yankton  College,  1890-94;  graduate  St.  John's 
Military  School,  Manlius,  N.  Y.,  1897.  Married  Frances  Lee 
Johnson,  of  Holden,  Mo.,  June  2,  1909.  (She  died  April  12, 
1912).  Employed  by  Otis  Elevator  Co.,  St.  Louis,  Mo., 
1900-09.  Farming  near  Yankton  since  then.  Contributor  to 
magazines  since  1900.  Author  of  three  standards  novels, 
two  histories  and  one  book  of  poems. 


JOSEPH  MILLS  HANSON 

One  of  the  younger  writers  of  our  state,  whose 
literary  work — both  prose  and  poetry — will  stand 
the  supremest  test  of  critics,  is  Joseph  Mills  Hanson, 
of  Yankton.  His  writings  are  all  finished  produc- 
tions. He  never  neglects  any  of  them  at  any  angle. 

Hanson  is  not  only  a  writer  of  fiction,  but  he  is 
a  good  historian  as  well.  One  of  his  widely  read 
books  is  "With  Carrington  on  the  Bozeman  Road." 
In  this  story  of  the  pioneer  journey  of  a  Minnesota 
merchant  and  his  soldier  son  to  Bozeman  City,  just 
after  the  Civil  War,  Hanson  not  only  paints  a 
graphic  picture  of  the  romance  of  the  invasion  of 
Montana  by  the  whites,  with  all  that  it  implied  of 
hardship,  tragedy,  and  ultimate  triumph,  but  he 
brings  to  the  story  a  notable  knowledge  of  the  his- 
tory of  the  Western  advance.  The  operations  of, 
General  Carrington  against  the  Indians  are  here  de- 
scribed with  historical  fidelity,  and  the  story  as  a 
whole  is  a  noble  interpretation  of  one  of  the  most 
heroic  chapters  in  American  life. 

Another  historical  work  of  Hanson's  that  has 
gained  wide  recognition  throughout  the  northwest, 
not  only  in  home  libraries  but  as  a  book  for  public 
school  use  as  well,  is  his  "With  Sully  Into  the  Sioux 
Land."  It  is  an  account  of  the  campaign  of  General 
Sully  against  the  Sioux  Indians.  The  story  begins 
with  a  scene  laid  near  New  Ulm,  Minnesota,  in  1862, 


114  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

in  which  Governor  Ramsey,  General  Sibley,  Judge 
Flandreau,  and  others,  are  conspicuously  mentioned. 
It  then  shifts  to  North  Dakota,  South  Dakota,  and 
Montana,  and  fully  depicts  the  hardships  and  suffer- 
ing of  the  pioneers  and  early  settlers  resulting  from 
the  Indian  outbreaks. 

One  of  this  author's  best  books — one  showing 
his  widest  range  of  research — is  " Pilot  Knob,  The 
Thermopylae  of  the  West."  In  the  preparation  of 
this  work  he  had  associated  with  him  Dr.  Cyrus  A. 
Peterson. 

In  this  book  is  related  from  the  Union  point  of 
view  the  history  of  the  battle  of  Pilot  Knob,  which 
was  fought  on  September  27,  1864,  and  which  was 
one  of  the  greatest  contests  of  the  tremendous 
struggle  of  sixty  years  ago. 

Hanson  and  Peterson  have  utilized  the  accumu- 
lated data,  notes,  memoranda,  and  correspondence 
with  respect  to  the  great  battle,  together  with  the 
narratives  of  more  than  100  survivors  of  the  con- 
flict at  Pilot  Knob  and  have  extracted  everything 
bearing  on  the  detail  of  that  battle. 

The  authors  say:  "In  these  days  of  peace  and 
ease  and  plenty  it  is  well  for  us  to  contemplate  now 
and  then — not  through  the  eyes  of  the  trained  his- 
torian, who  winnows  and  balances  all  the  data  of  the 
subject  before  him — but  through  the  sweat-dimmed 
and  smoke-blinded  eyes  of  actual  participants — the 
exertions  and  heroisms  and  sufferings  of  the  men 


POETS  AND  POETRY  115 

who  made  possible  our  present  age  of  material 
prosperity." 

It  is  an  important  addition  to  the  history  of  the 
Civil  War  written  with  unusual  charm. 

"The  Conquest  of  Missouri",  from  the  pen  of 
Hanson,  excited  the  admiration  of  such  old  Indian 
fighters  as  Colonel  Cody  and  General  Nelson  A. 
Miles,  and  many  others  who  were  associated  with 
them.  Such  large  dailies  as  the  Chicago  Tribune 
and  the  New  York  Sun  heralded  its  praises. 

Captain  Grant  Marsh,  who  is  the  chief  figure 
in  "The  Conquest  of  the  Missouri,"  commanded  the 
"Far  West"  which  took  so  prominent  a  part  in  the 
campaign  against  the  Sioux  Indians  in  1876  which 
culminated  in  the  destruction  of  Gen.  Geo.  A.  Custer 
and  several  battalions  of  his  command — the  7th  U. 
S.  Cavalry.  Besides  this  one  notable  instance 
Captain  Marsh  participated  in  many  government 
enterprises  during  the  years  of  struggle  between  the 
whites  and  the  hostile  Indian  tribes.  Hanson,  in 
writing  "The  Conquest  of  the  Missouri,"  has  built 
up  his  work  around  the  personality  and  adventures 
of  Captain  Marsh  as  being  representative  of  the 
period  but  he  does  not  confine  himself  by  any  means 
to  biographical  data,  and  his  work  is  really  a  very 
complete  history  of  the  advance  of  civilization  over 
the  vast  territory  of  the  Missouri. 

Another  refreshing  story  of  Hanson's  is  "The 
Trail  to  El  Dorado."  This  is  an  ideal  boy's  story, 
based  upon  the  expedition  of  emigrants  under  Cap- 


116  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

tain  James  L.  Fisk,  in  1862,  from  Minnesota  across 
northern  Dakota  and  Montana  to  Walla  Walla, 
Washington.  It  was  published  serially  in  1913  in 
"Boys'  Life,"  the  official  organ  of  the  Boy  Scouts. 
That  fall  McClurg  brought  it  out  in  book  form. 

The  newly  revived  art  of  pageantry  will  doubt- 
less contribute  its  quota  to  literature  in  the  form  of 
published  texts.  The  first  one  published  by  a  South 
Dakota  writer  is  "The  Pageant  of  Yankton"  by 
Joseph  Mills  Hanson,  which  is  just  now  issuing 
from  the  press.  The  subject  of  the  pageant  is  the 
history  of  Yankton,  including  its  romantic  Indian 
beginnings,  the  coming  of  the  first  white  men,  the 
picturesque  days  of  steamboating  on  the  Missouri, 
the  pioneer  settlement  of  the  town  and  important 
features  of  its  development.  Main  incidents  in  this 
history  are  presented  in  a  series  of  dramatic  epi- 
sodes, interspersed  with  music,  songs,  and  dancing. 
A  pageant  has  been  described  as  a  drama  in  which 
the  community  is  the  hero  and  its  history  the  plot. 
Its  purpose  is  to  interpret  to  the  people  of  a  com- 
munity their  own  life  and  civic  ideals.  This  Mr. 
Hanson  has  done  with  insight  and  power  in  his  new 
book. 

But,  we  must  get  away  from  Hanson  as  a  novel- 
ist and  historian  and  study  him  briefly  as  a  poet. 
The  same  beautiful  literary  charm  found  in  his 
prose  is  at  once  noticeable  in  his  poetry.  He  excels 
in  narration.  His  periods  attain  great  power,  and 


POETS  AND  POETRY  117 

one  cannot  read  any  of  them  without  feeling  the 
thrill  of  their  inspiration. 

One  of  the  very  best  volumes  of  poems  to  appear 
thus  far  in  the  history  of  the  state  is  his  "Frontier 
Ballads,"  a  volume  containing  about  one-fourth  of 
the  poems  he  has  written  to  date,  and  which  have 
been  published  from  time  to  time  in  miscellaneous 
magazines.  The  poems  contained  in  it  are  however 
those  that  are  essentially  western  in  flavor. 

For  both  description  and  narration  his  "Girl 
of  the  Yankton  Stockade,"  taken  from  "Frontier 
Ballads,"  will  give  us  a  good  example. 

THE  GIRL  OF  THE  YANKTON  STOCKADE 

Yes,  it's  pretty,  this  town.    And  it's  always  been  so; 

We  pioneers  picked  it  for  beauty,  you  know. 

See  the  far-rolling  bluffs;  mark  the  trees,  how  they  hide 

All  its  streets,  and,  beyond,  the  Missouri,  bank-wide, 

Swinging  down  through  the  bottoms.    Up  here  on  the  height 

Is  the  college.     Eh,  sightly  location?     You're  right! 

It  has  grown,  you  may  guess,  since  I've  been  here;  but  still 

It  is  forty-five  years  since  I  looked  from  this  hill 

One  morning,  and  saw  in  the  stockade  down  there 

Our  women  and  children  all  gathered  at  prayer, 

While  we,  their  defenders,  with  muskets  in  rest 

Lay  waiting  the  Sioux  coming  out  of  the  West. 

They  had  swept  Minnesota  with  bullet  and  brand 

Till  her  borders  lay  waste  as  a  desert  of  sand, 

When  we  in  Dakota  awakened  to  find 

That  the  red  flood  had  risen  and  left  us  behind. 

Then  we  rallied  to  fight  them, — Sioux,  Sissetons,  all 

Who  had  ravaged  unchecked  to  the  gates  of  Saint  Paul. 


118  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Is  it  strange,  do  you  think,  that  the  women  took  fright 
That  morning,  and  prayed;  that  men,  even,  turned  white 
When  over  the  ridge  where  the  college  now  looms 
We  caught  the  first  glitter  of  lances  and  plumes 
And  heard  the  dull  trample  of  hoofs  drawing  nigh, 
Like  the  rumble  of  thunder  low  down  in  the  sky? 

Such  sounds  wrench  the  nerves  when  there's  little  to  see; 
It  seemed  madness  to  stay,  it  was  ruin  to  flee. 
But,  handsome  and  fearless  as  Anthony  Wayne, 
Our  captain,  Frank  Ziebach,  kept  hold  on  the  rein, 
Like  a  bugle  his  voice  made  us  stiffen  and  thrill — 
"Stand  steady,  boys,  steady!     And  fire  to  kill!" 

So  the  most  of  us  stayed.    But  when  dangers  begin 
You  will  always  find  some  who  are  yellow  within. 
We  had  a  few  such,  who  concluded  to  steer 
For  the  wagon-train,  parked  in  the  centre  and  rear. 
They  didn't  stay  long!     But  you've  heard,  I  dare  say, 
Of  the  girl  who  discouraged  their  running  away. 

What,  no?    Never  heard  of  Miss  Edgar?    Why,  sir, 

Dakota  went  wild  with  the  praise  of  her! 

As  sweet  as  a  hollyhock,  slender  and  tall, 

And  brave  as  the  sturdiest  man  of  us  all. 

By  George,  sir,  a  heroine,  that's  what  she  made, 

When  her  spirit  blazed  out  in  the  Yankton  stockade! 

The  women  were  sobbing,'for  every  one  knew 

She  must  blow  out  her  brains  if  the  redskins  broke  through, 

When  into  their  midst,  fairly  gasping  with  fright, 

Came  the  panic-struck  hounds  who  had  fled  from  the  fight. 

They  trampled  the  weak  in  their  blind,  brutal  stride, 

Made  straight  for  the  wagons  and  vanished  inside. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  119 

Then  up  rose  Miss  Edgar  in  anger  and  haste 
And  grasped  the  revolver  that  hung  at  her  waist; 
She  walked  to  the  wagon  which  nearest  her  lay, 
She  wrenched  at  the  back-flap  and  tore  it  away, 
Then  aiming  her  gun  at  the  fellow  beneath 
She  held  it  point-blank  to  his  chattering  teeth. 

"Go  back  to  your  duty,"  she  cried,  "with  the  men! 
Go  back,  or  you'll  never  see  sunrise  again! 
Do  you  think,  because  only  the  women  are  here, 
You  can  skulk  behind  skirts  with  your  dastardly  fear? 
Get  out  on  the  ground.    Take  your  gun.    About,  face! 
And  don't  look  around  till  you're  back  in  your  place!" 

Well,  he  minded;  what's  more,  all  the  others  did,  too. 
That  girl  cleared  the  camp  of  the  whole  scurvy  crew, 
For  a  pistol-point,  hovering  under  his  nose, 
Was  an  argument  none  of  them  cared  to  oppose. 
Yet  so  modest  she  was  that  she  colored  with  shame 
When  the  boys  on  the  line  began  cheering  her  name! 

Well,  that's  all;  just  an  echo  of  old  border  strife 

When  the  sights  on  your  gun  were  the  guide-posts  of  life. 

Harsh  times  breed  strong  souls,  by  eternal  decree, 

Who  can  breast  them  and  win — but  it's  always  struck  me 

That  the  Lord  did  an  extra  good  job  when  He  made 

Miss  Edgar,  the  girl  of  the  Yankton  stockade. 


Likewise,  two  of  his  selections.  "The  Missouri" 
and  "The  Tauline'  ",  taken  from  his  "River  Songs," 
which  constitute  the  last  section  of  his  "Frontier 
Ballads,"  are  worthy  of  a  place  in  the  literature  of 
any  state  or  nation.  "The  Missouri"  is  too  lengthy 


120  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

for  reproduction  in  its  entirety,  but  a  few  stanzas 
culled  therefrom  will  give  to  us  an  appreciation  of  its 
beautiful  imagery  as  well  as  its  artistic  style  of  exe- 
cution. The  first  two  stanzas  read : 

When  the  hollow  void  of  Chaos 

By  the  sun's  first  flame  was  lit, 
And  morning  kissed  the  new  earth's  leaden  sky, 

When  the  hand  of  God  reached  downward 

To  the  ocean's  utmost  pit 
And  reared  the  ragged  continents   on  high, 

From  the  naked,  dripping  ranges 

Of  the  Rocky 's  granite  sweep, 
In  a  pathway  through  the  quaking  mud-plains  torn, 

Surged  a  waste  of  briny  waters 

Roaring  backward  to  the  deep, 
And  the  great  Missouri,  king  of  floods,  was  born. 

After  tracing  it  through  the  glacial  period;  on 
up  to  the  time  the  Indians  first  sat  upon  its  banks 
and  later  when  the  white  man  was  checked  by  its 
floods,  he  concludes  the  poem  as  follows : 

But  splendid  though  the  epic 

Of  the  river's  wondrous  past 
As  Homer  e'er  could  sing  or  Milton  pen, 

It  will  know  its  grandest  numbers 

In  the  ages  yet  uncast 
When  its  worth  shall  yield  full  measure  unto  men. 

In  this  storehouse  of  the  nations, 

Where  but  thousands  prosper  now, 
The  homes  of  teeming  millions  soon  shall  be; 

On  this  noble  waste  of  waters, 

Untouched  by  steamer's  prow, 
Shall  roll  a  people's  commerce  toward  the 


POETS  AND  POETRY  121 

Unto  us  and  to  our  children 

Will  be  dealt  the  untold  gains 
If,  shaping  Nature's  promise  into  deeds, 

We  accept  the  willing  service 

Of  this  Titan  of  the  plains 
And  compel  its  mighty  muscles  to  our  needs, 

Till  its  flood  runs  deep  and  constant 

To  the  Mississippi's  tide, 
And  the  wedded  torrents  down  the  South  are  hurled. 

Pouring  forth  their  fleets  of  plenty 

O'er  oceans  far  and  wide 
To  bear  our  country's  riches  to  the  world. 


"The  Tauline'  "  is  so  closely  woven  together 
throughout  that  it  would  spoil  the  narrative  to 
strike  from  it  a  single  stanza,  so  we  give  it  in  full : 

THE  "PAULINE" 

A  Missouri  tramp  was  the  boat  "Pauline" 

An'  she  ran  in  '78; 

She  was  warped  in  the  hull  an'  broad  o'  beam, 
An'  her  engines  sizzled  with  wastin'  steam, 
An'  a  three-mile  jog  against  the  stream 

Was  her  average  runnin'  gait. 
Sing  ho!  fer  the  rickety  "Pauline"  maid, 
The  rottenest  raft  in  the  Bismarck  trade, 

An'  her  captain  an'  her  mate. 

The  new  "North  Queen"  come  up  in  June, 

Fresh  launched  from  the  Saint  Joe  ways, 
As  speedy  a  craft  as  the  river'd  float — 
She  could  buck  the  bends  like  a  big-horn  goat — 
An'  she  hauled  astern  o'  that  "Pauline"  boat 


122  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

On  one  o'  them  nice  spring  days. 
Sing  ho!  fer  the  "Pauline,"  puffin'  hard, 
With  her  captain  up  on  the  starboard  guard, 

A-watchin'  the  "North  Queen"  raise. 

The  "Queen,"  she  drew  to  the  "Pauline's"  wheel 

An'  her  captain  come  a-bow; 
"I'll  give  yeh  three  miles  the  lead,"  says  he, 
"An'  beat  yeh  at  that  into  Old  Santee." 
"Come  on,"  says  the  "Pauline's"  chief,  "an'  see! 

I'm  a-waitin'  fer  yeh  now." 
Sing  ho!  fer  the  captains,  grim  an'  white 
With  the  smothered  hate  of  an  old-time  fight 
An'  the  chance  fer  a  new-time  row. 

So  the  sassy  "Queen"  strung  out  behind 

An'  let  the  distance  spread, 
Till  the  "Pauline"  headed  Ackley's  Bend 
An'  herself  come  in  at  the  lower  end; 
Then  her  slow-bell  speed  begun  to  mend 

Fer  the  space  that  the  old  boat  led. 
Sing  ho!  fer  the  clerk's  an'  the  engineers 
A-swabbin'  the  grease  on  the  runnin'  gears 

An'  settin'  the  stroke  ahead. 

Puff-puff!  they  went  by  the  flat  sand-bars, 

Chug-chug!     where  the  currents  spun, 
An'  the  "Pauline's"  stokers  were  not  to  blame 
Fer  her  tall,  black  stacks  were  spoutin'  flame, 
But  the  "Queen"  crawled  up  on  her,  just  the  same, 

Two  miles  to  the  "Pauline's"  one. 
Sing  ho!  fer  the  steam-chest's  poundin'  cough, 
A-shakin'  the  nuts  o'  the  guy-rods  off 
To  the  beat  o'  the  piston's  run. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  123 

The  "Queen"  pulled  up  on  the  old  boat's  beam 

At  the  mouth  o'  Chouteau  Creek, 
An'  the  "Pauline's"  captain  stamped  an'  swore, 
Fer  the  wood  bulged  out  o'  the  furnace  door, 
An'  the  steam-gauge  hissed  with  the  load  it  bore, 

But  she  couldn't  do  the  trick. 
Sing  ho!  fer  the  pilot  at  the  wheel 
A-shavin'  the  shoals  on  a  twelve-inch  keel, 
Enough  to  scare  yeh  sick. 

The  "Queen"  was  doin'  her  level  best 

An'  she  wasn't  leadin'  far — 

Fer  the  "Pauline"  stuck  like  a  barber's  leech — 
But  she  let  her  siren  whistle  screech 
When  she  led  the  way  into  Dodson's  Reach, 

Three  miles  from  Santee  Bar. 
Sing  ho!  fer  the  "Pauline's"  roust  about 
A-rollin'  the  Bismarck  cargo  out, 

Big  barrels  o'  black  pine  tar. 

The  "Pauline's"  chief  was  a  sight  to  see 

As  he  stood  on  the  swingin'  stage. 

"I'll  beat  that  pop-eyed  levee-rat 

If  he  banks  his  fires  with  bacon  fat; 

Pile  in  that  tar  an'  let  her  scat 

An'  never  mind  the  gauge!" 

Sing  ho!    fer  the  boilers  singein'  red 

An'  the  black  smoke  vomitin'  overhead 

From  the  furnace'  flamin*  rage. 

An'  she  gained,  that  rattle-trap  mud-scow  did, 
While  her  wake  got  white  with  spray, 
An'  forty  rods  from  the  landin'-plank 
Her  bow  was  a-beam  o'  the  "North  Queen's"  flank 
An'  her  pilot  rushin'  her  fer  the  bank 


124  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

To  block  the  "North  Queen's"  way. 
Sing  ho!  fer  the  boilers'  burstin'  roar 
As  they  hurl  them  loose  from  the  splittin'  floor, 

An'  tear  the  decks  away. 

But  the  captain  bold  of  the  ex-"Pauline," 

He  didn't  stop  a  bit, 

Fer  he  flew  with  the  wreckage  through  the  air 
An'  fell  on  the  landin',  fair  an'  square, 
An'  the  "Queen"  run  in  an'  found  him  there, 

R'ared  up  from  where  he'd  lit. 
An'  he  yelled:  "You  rouster,  I've  won  the  race! 
Go  git  a  boat  that  can  keep  my  pace, 

Yer  'North  Queen'  doesn't  fit!" 


Other  charming  poems  of  Hanson's,  published 
as  yet  only  in  various  magazines,  but  not  preserved 
in  book  form,  are :  "Recessional,"  a  tribute  to  Bishop 
Biller;  "Memory,"  a  longing  for  the  Jim  river; 
"Ballads  of  Visions,"  a  psychic  treatise  on  the  soul ; 
"Ballad  of  the  Fleet,"  a  description  of  the  world 
cruise  made  by  the  United  States'  battleship  fleet  in 
1908;  "Christmas  Eve,"  "Festival  Hall,"  "Flag 
Day,"  "Love  Beckoned  On,"  "Vesper,"  "Prairie 
Chicken  Time,"  "My  Pal  and  I,"  and  "The  Cavalry 
Veteran." 


Charles  Elmer  Holmes 

Biographical — Born,  North  Stonington,  Conn.,  Feb.  2, 
1868.  Educated  at  Yale  (A.  B.  1884).  Admitted  Nebraska 
bar,  1887.  V-P  State  Bank  of  Harrison,  Neb.,  1890-93. 
Teacher,  South  Dakota  schools,  1894-99.  Identified  with  N.  Y. 
Mutual  Life  Insurance  Co.  since  that  time.  Married  Josephine 
C.  Etter,  June  15,  1903.  Lecturer.  Author  of  two  volumes  of 
poetry  and  one  of  prose.  Present  address,  Columbus,  Ohio. 


CHARLES  ELMER  HOLMES 

The  most  prolific  writer  (with  the  exception  of 
Judge  Van  Dalsem)  that  the  state  has  produced  thus 
far — by  birth  within  her  borders  or  by  adoption, 
either  temporary  or  permanently — is  the  accom- 
plished Charles  E.  Holmes.  He  has  excelled  in  both 
fields  of  literary  endeavor — prose  and  poetry — and 
in  addition  thereto,  he  is  one  of  the  most  versatile 
public  speakers  that  have  graced  the  platform  of 
the  state. 

Holmes  is  a  typical  literary  genius.  Most 
writers  are  not  successful  public  speakers.  The 
thoughtful,  considerate  rigid-moving  mind  found  in 
the  writer,  is  usually  at  variance  with  the  dash,  the 
keenness,  the  sarcasm,  the  wit  and  the  ready  speech 
of  the  orator.  Not  so  with  Holmes.  He  embodies 
the  fundamental  requisites  of  both,  happily  inter- 
mingled, and  strengthened  by  an  inviting  personality, 
and  a  pleasing  voice.  These  give  him  a  complete 
mastery  of  the  lecture  field  as  well. 

The  production  on  which  his  reputation  must 
rest  as  a  prose  writer  is  his  "Birds  of  the  West." 
In  this  book  he  plainly  forsook  the  prose  style  of  the 
average  writer  and  launched  boldly  into  a  style  of 
his  own.  These  articles  on  birds  were  first  published 
in  serial  form  in  the  Sioux  Falls  Daily  Argus-Leader. 
They  struck  such  a  responsive  chord  in  the  western 


128  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

heart  that  hundreds  of  people  wrote  their  author  to 
preserve  them  in  book  form.  This  he  did.  In  his 
Introduction  to  the  book  he  says :  "Many  a  time  I 
have  asked  my  friends,  'What  is  life?'  "  Then  the 
writer  himself  concludes  in  the  language  of  Whittier, 
that  life  is  to  know : 

"  'Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild  flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl,  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung.' " 

He  says : 

"We  shall  learn  something  of  the  skunk  cabbage  when  we 
see  the  dapper  little  yellow  throat  building  her  home  within 
it,  choosing  to  endure  its  horrid  odor  for  the  protection  that 
it  gives  to  her  helpless  little  babies. 

"We  shall  learn  that  snakes  crawl  out  of  their  skins 
when  we  find  the  crested  flycatcher  working  a  cast-off  skin 
•into  her  nest  to  scare  her  enemies  away. 

"We  shall  get  a  genuine  pleasure  in  knowing  that  the 
little  bird  we  call  a  petrel  was  named  after  Saint  Peter, 
because  it  walks  upon  the  water. 

"When  we  are  afield,  we  shall  learn  of  the  trees  in  which 
the  birds  spread  their  tiny  couches  and  swing  their  airy 

cradles. 

***** 

"When  we  begin  to  appreciate  the  worth  of  things  rather 
than  their  values,  we  begin  to  live.  Then  a  frog  means  more 
than  a  pair  of  edible  legs;  and  I  have  seen  the  very  human 
little  fellows  put  their  hands  over  their  faces  to  ward  off  the 


POETS  AND  POETRY  129 

blows  that  were  to  send  them  to  the  market.  Is  not  a  quail 
on  its  nest  better  than  a  "quail  on  toast?'  Does  it  not  bear 
the  same  relation  to  birds  that  the  trout  does  to  fishes — just 
a  little  dearer  than  most  of  the  others?  Neither  was  made 
to  lie  in  the  market;  and  if  they  must  be  taken,  let  it  be 
where  the  feathered  choir  is  chanting  a  requiem  and  the 
heather  bells  are  tolling." 

For  use  in  making  up  his  book  the  American 
Audubon  Society  loaned  to  the  publishers  the  color- 
plates  of  all  the  birds  contained  therein.  This  makes 
it  an  unusually  attractive  volume,  as  well  as  an  in- 
structive one. 

But  it  is  as  a  poet  that  we  desire  to  discuss 
Holmes.  He  is  a  master  of  all  kinds  of  styles.  He 
seems  to  pass  through  a  multiplicity  of  moods,  and 
while  in  each  of  them,  to  be  easily  at  his  best.  He 
lowers  you  into  a  pit  of  dismal  grief  and  then  carries 
you  on  wings  of  imaginative  fantasy  to  the  siren 
heights  of  rapturous  ecstasy.  Vacillating  between 
these  two  extremes  he  paints  in  musical  rhythm 
every  phase  of  life.  As  a  descriptive  poet  his  works 
have  a  fine  coloring ;  but  it  is  due  to  him  to  say  that 
his  strongest  traits  lie  in  his  power  of  implied  sug- 
gestion. This  power  is  abundantly  set  forth  in  the 
following  dainty  love  scene: 

LOVE'S  STORY 

Down  in  the  shade  of  a  leafy  nook, 

In  the  bend  of  a  winding,  woodland  brook, 

The  sunshine  lighted  our  little  book, 

As  we  both  read  the  same  sweet  story. 


130  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

And  as  we  came  to  the  closing  line 
Of  a  dainty  love-song,  half -divine, 
I  glanced,  and  her  wistful  eyes  met  mine 
And  we  both  read  the  same  sweet  story. 


Holmes  lives  close  to  nature.  He  does  not  "see 
through  a  glass  darkly,"  but  he  sees  things  as  they 
are.  Wandering  casually  along  the  sunny  slopes  of 
the  Sioux  hills  his  keen  eye  never  fails  to  catch  the 
bending  nod  of  the  daisy  (day's  eye)  as  it  obeys 
the  spring  zephyr  and  expresses  its,  "How  do  you 
do?"  Neither  does  he  miss  the  perfect  coloring  of 
the  leaves;  the  birds'  nests  on  the  forked  limbs  nor 
the  varied  insects  creeping  about  in  the  trees. 
Holmes  hears.  He  listens  to  the  voice  of  Dame  Na- 
ture; and  in  his  soul  he  feels  a  quickening  response 
to  the  unfolding  bud,  the  healing  wound  on  the  tree, 
and  the  crackling  of  the  grasses  round  about  as  they 
rise  from  their  winter's  bed  to  resume  their  green 
hue  as  of  old.  He  reveals  this  trait  of  himself 
beautifully  in  the  following  lines: 

NATURE 

Nature,  devoted  priestess,  ever  finds 

Some  new-born  wonder  in  the  meanest  clod; 

And  feasts  our  eyes  on  beauty  and  our  minds 
On  truths  that  bear  the  autograph  of  God. 

Who  keeps  in  touch  with  nature  and  adores 
The  faultless  working  of  her  plans  prepense, 

Is  more  than  nature's  child,  for  he  explores 
The  widest  range  of  soul  intelligence. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  131 

Holmes'  delicate  sentiment,  his  poetic  diction 
and  his  artistic  touch  are  nowhere  more  plainly 
revealed  in  his  writings  than  in  his  charming  little 
two  stanza  lullaby: 

LULLABY 

Sleep,  sleep,  little  ones,  sleep; 
Under  the  waves  of  your  fairy-like  curls; 
Little  eyes  weighted  with  baby-bright  blisses, 
Little  cheeks  freighted  with  lily-light  kisses; 

Sleep,  little  girls. 

.    Dream,  dream,  little  ones,  dream; 
Sail  far  away  from  the  region  of  tears; 
Little  eyes  weary  of  constant  surprise, 
Little  cheeks  teary  from  weary-worn  eyes; 
Dream,  little  dears. 


Again,  much  of  his  literary  strength  lies  in  his 
sympathetic  nature.  He  possesses  all  the  finer  at- 
tributes of  a  poet's  heart.  His  sympathy  finds 
beautiful  expression  in  the  following  selection: 

ON  BROKEN  WING 

In  a  dark  highway,  flitting  in  the  snow, 
A  little  bird  lay  chilled  and  suffering; 
Chirping  unheard,  unseen  in  pain  it  fell 
On  broken  wing. 

There  have  been  souls,  children  of  heavenly  song, 

That  have  stayed  in  their  wild,  dreamy  flight, 
And  fall'n  unseen,  unknown,  as  silently 
In  the  dark  night. 


132  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Yet  someone  pities  them  and  someone  loves 

Them,  for  the  simple  tribute  that  they  bring 
To  Him  that  marketh  e'en  the  sparrow's  fall 
On  broken  wing. 


Note  the  difference  between  the  preceding  poem 
and  the  one  that  follows.  Observe  the  change  of 
mood,  the  vacillation.  Although  not  a  father  him- 
self, he  has  the  deepest  possible  appreciation  of 
childhood.  This  appreciation  is  tastily  set  forth  in 
the  following  poem: 

TO  A  LITTLE  FRIEND 

It's  astonishing,  yet  statisticians  say, 
.    There  are  born  a  million  babies  every  day; 
There  are  brownies,  blacks  and  yellows, 
Mighty  cunning  little  fellows, 
Teenty-taunty  little  heathen  far  away. 

I  am  singing  of  the  babes  of  fairer  hue, 

The  dimpled  little  darlings  such  as  you; 

When  you  left  your  home  above, 

A  tiny  messenger  of  love — 

A  little  star  came  peeping  through  the  blue. 

Oh,  these  baby  lumps  of  freshness  from  on  high, 

Little  chest-expanding  crooners  from  the  sky — 

Bright  and  happy  angel-faces 

Sent  to  occupy  the  places 

Of  little  people  such  as  Pa  and  I. 

Little  minstrels  of  the  stilly,  chilly  night, 

Making  papa  promenade  the  stage  in  white, 

Singing  rasping  lullabys 

That  would  ope  your  dreamy  eyes, 

No  matter  if  old  Somnus  glued  'em  tight. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  133 

But  you're  worth  the  weary  hours  of  toil  and  pain; 

And  your  baby-song  is  never  sung  in  vain; 

For  it  makes  the  home-life  dearer 

And  it  draws  your  papa  nearer, 

And  it  makes  him  like  a  little  child  again. 


From  the  happy  jingle  of  the  last  poem  we  are 
dropped  into  a  chasm  of  grief  and  sadness  in  the 
following  lines: 

THOU  DOST  NOT  KNOW 

Hast  thou  a  friend  in  sickness  lying, 
Though  but  a  simple  ailment  lay  her  low — 
Do  not  forget!     Fate  names  the  dying. 
Thou  shalt  not  know 

How  soon  a  friend  may  pass  from  thee 
Without  a  knowledge  of  thy  love  for  her. 
Love  always  thinks.     A  little  flower  may  be 
Thy  silent  messenger. 

Pluck  them  I  say.    Stern  are  the  laws  of  fate; 
Hold  it  not  lightly  that  thy  friendship  show 
Only  a  name.     It  may  be  too  late. 
Thou  dost  not  know. 


As  a  descriptive  poet,  Holmes  is  very  much  at 
his  ease.  His  description  of  the  Bad  Lands  attests 
his  proficiency  in  this  line.  It  has  been  used  repeat- 
edly by  trained  elocutionists  in  their  recitals. 

THE  BAD  LANDS 

A  stillness  sleeps  on  the  broken  plain 
And  the  sun  beats  down  with  a  fiery  rain 
On  the  crust  that  covers  the  sand  that  is  rife 
With  the  bleaching  bones  of  the  old  world  life. 


134  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 


'Tis  a  sea  of  sand  and  over  the  waves 
Are  the  wind-blown  tops  of  the  Cyclops'  caves; 
And  the  mountain  sheep  and  the  antelopes 
Graze  cautiously  over  the  sun-burnt  slopes. 

And  here  in  the  sport  of  the  wild  wind's  play, 
A  thousand  years  are  as  yesterday; 
And  a  million  more  in  these  barren  lands 
Have  run  themselves  in  the  shifting  sands. 

Oh,  the  struggle  and  strife  and  the  passion  and  pain 
Since  the  bones  lay  bleached  on  the  sandy  plain, 
And  a  stillness  fell  on  the  shifting  sea, 
And  a  silence  that  tells  of  eternity! 


Holmes'  best  poems  are  found  in  his  little 
volume  entitled  "Happy  Days."  Among  them  are 
"The  Cowboy's  Sweetheart,"  and  "The  Cake  Walk," 
two  selections  that  are  general  favorites  with  public 
readers:  also  "The  Hymn  of  the  Prairie,"  "Uncle 
Sam,"  "A  Song  of  Dakota"  and  many  other  pieces 
worth  one's  time  to  study. 

Among  the  hit-afnd-miss  poems  of  this  gifted 
writer  is  one  that  savors  of  melancholy  or  regret, 
and  it  is  the  only  one  of  his  poems  that  does.  To  read 
it  gives  one  another  view-point  of  Holmes. 

SUBMISSION 

Sweet,  thou  hast  trod  on  a  heart; 

Pass,  there's  a  world  full  of  men, 
And  women  as  fair  as  thou  art 

Must  do  such  things  now  and  then. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  135 

True,  only  the  heart  of  a  friend 

Thou  hast  trod  upon,  unaware 
Of  aught  but  thy  halcyon  tread; 

But  why  should  a  heart  have  been  there? 

Forbid  that  in  after  years, 

When  the  bloom  and  the  dimples  are  gone, 
Thine  eyes  look  to  God  through  the  tears 

Of  thy  sorrow  for  what  thou  hast  done. 

Forbid  that  in  silence  apart, 

Thy  soul  the  sad  prayer  shall  know, 

"Would  God  I  had  only  the  heart 
That  I  trod  upon  ages  ago." 


In  1905,  Holmes  suddenly  thrust  upon  the  mar- 
ket an  entire  volume  of  poems,  all  centering  about 
the  divorce  evil,  which  at  that  time  was  at  high  tide 
in, Sioux  Falls.  The  title  of  this  little  book,  "From 
Court  to  Court/'  is  very  suggestive  of  its  contents. 

One,  only,  of  these  poems  is  sufficient  to  give  the 
reader  an  insight  into  the  real  character  of  the 
volume : 

WHAT  COULD  THE  POOR  GIRL  DO? 

They  married,  as   so  many  do, 
Before  they  were  acquainted, 
When  Bill  discovered  Geraldine 
Was  not  as  she  was  painted: 
And  she  discovered  Bill  was  not 
The  boy  to  blush  unseen, 
And  so  they  had  their  quarrels; 
Poor   little   Geraldine! 

What  could  the  poor  girl  do? 


136  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

In  books  and  art  they  disagreed: 
She  read  the  best  they  made: 
Such  stuff  as  James  and  Browning; 
Bill  always  read  George  Ade: 
He  was  very  fond  of  Dooley; 
She  leaned  a  bit  to  Ibsen; 
He  loved  the  comic  supplement; 
She  loved  the  girls  of  Gibson. 

What  could  the  poor  girl  do? 

On  music  and  the  theatre 
They  quarreled  every  day: 
He  liked  the  Cherry  sisters; 
She  doted  on  Duse: 
She   played   Chopin   and    Schuman 
And  denounced  it  as  a  crime 
When  Bill  sang  "Hiawatha" 
And  "The  Good  Old  Summer  Time." 
What  could  the  poor  girl  do? 

Her  dog  she  named  De  Peyster, 
Bill  had  a  fighting  pup: 
One  day  Fitz  got  excited, 
And  he  ate  De  Peyster  up: 
She  named  the  baby  Reginald 
He  wanted  it  named  Chawles; 
That  settled  it:  He  went  his  way: 
She   visited    Sioux   Falls. 

What  could  the  poor  girl  do? 


Charles  Bracy  Lawton 

Biographical — Born  in  Ohio,  June  27,  1887.  During  baby- 
hood removed  with  parents  to  South  Bend,  Indiana.  Educated 
in  the  public  schools  of  that  place.  During  his  latter  'teens, 
the  family  removed  to  South  Dakota  and  settled  on  a  farm 
six  miles  east  of  Scotland.  Later,  they  removed  to  Scotland. 
Married  Marie  Wenzlaff  in  1894.  Settled  on  his  parents'  old 
farm  on  the  James  River,  east  of  Scotland.  Father  of  two 
children — a  boy  and  a  girl.  Killed  by  an  accident,  January  20, 
1899. 


CHARLES  BRACY  LAWTON 
We  are  now  to  consider  another  poet  with  a 
poet's  heart — one  whose  songs  emanated  not  alone 
from  the  mind  but  also  from  that  hidden  some- 
thing in  the  inward  being,  which  we  are  wont  to 
style  the  human  soul.  The  full  roundness  of  his  lit- 
erary conception,  the  delicacy  of  his  sentiments,  the 
choice  selection  of  his  words,  and,  in  general,  his 
literary  execution — all  combine  to  give  his  writings 
an  artistic  finish  and  a  high  rank.  His  poems  are 
nearly  all  written  in  a  minor  key — death,  fate,  con- 
templation. 

It  is  indeed  regrettable  that  one  of  such  great 
literary  promise  should  have  been  stricken  down  at 
so  young  an  age  when  the  realization  of  his  literary 
aspirations  had  but  scarcely  begun.  And  yet,  during 
this  brief  career,  he  gave  to  us  a  complete  volume 
of  poems,  entitled  "Lest  You  Forget,"  published  by 
his  mother  after  his  death,  which  bespeaks  uncom- 
promisingly the  great  literary  future  that  awaited 
him.  All  who  have  read  his  literary  productions 
agree  that  he  takes  high  rank  among  South  Dakota 
poets. 

The  preface  to  "Lest  You  Forget"  was  written 
by  Miss  Flora  Louise  Stanfield,  of  South  Bend,  Ind., 
one  of  his  boyhood  friends.  It  is  exceedingly  touch- 
ing and  beautiful.  Among  other  cherished  things 
she  says:  "There  are  some  lives  which  cannot  be 


140  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

judged  or  measured  by  the  petty  rules  with  which  we 
mete  out  praise  or  blame  to  the  ordinary  individual. 
His  was  such  a  life.  *  *  *  He  was  so  true  a  friend 
that  one's  pen  falters  when  it  dares  to  measure  the 
height  and  depth  and  extent  of  his  faithfulness.  *  *  * 
He  was  a  poet,  with  a  poet's  heart,  and  we  who  knew 
him  did  not  guess  it  until  he  had  woven  words  into 
verse  that  stern  critics  stopped  to  praise.  And  then, 
with  many  songs  unsung,  he  went  away." 

One  would  almost  think  that  Lawton  predicted 
his  own  fate,  for  in  the  opening  lines  of  "God's 
Plan,"  he  says: 

We  fill  a  place  in  God's  own  plan,  divine  this  life  we  live, 

The  mystery  pervading  it  a  charm  to  life  doth  give, 

While  we  seek  through  the  unstarred  night  the  solving  of  our 

state, 
Omnipotent,  an  unseen  hand  doth  build  for  each  his  fate. 

To  his  happy  marriage  two  children  were  born. 
The  girl  died  in  infancy.  His  first  inspiration  to 
write  poetry  came  to  him  on  the  first  anniversary 
of  her  death.  With  a  heart  reeking  with  sorrow- 
he  dipped  his  inspired  pen  into  the  heart  of  a  tomb 
and  left  to  the  world  this  touching  echo  of  his  own 
soul: 

A  LITTLE  MOUND 

I  stood  one  day  beside  a  little  mound 

I  knew  so  well  that  lies  upon  the  hill. 

And  wondered  long,  as  one  grief-stricken  will — 

Had  agony  before  reached  depths  profound 

As  these?    Had  yet  one  known  such  pain  or  found 

A  life  as  spiritless,  a  heart  as  chill 


POETS  AND  POETRY  141 

As  mine  had  been  since  nature  subtly  still 
Enwrapped  the  mystery  of  death  around 
That  little  form  of  hers,  my  first-born  child? 
This  punishment  seemed  all  that  I  could  bear, 
But  now,  when  I  another  hopeless  find, 
Weeping  for  one  grown  nameless  and  defiled, 
I  think  of  my  own  dear  one  lying  there, 
And  feel  that  death  to  me  was  almost  kind. 


As  his  life-blood  ebbed  away,  after  his  unfor- 
tunate accident,  he  left  behind  on  his  desk  an  un- 
published poem,  "A  Prayer" — it  was  his  last.  In 
it  he  seems  to  feel  intuitively  that  something  extra- 
ordinary is  about  to  happen,  but  instead  of  fasten- 
ing the  suspicion  upon  himself  his  longings  turn 
toward  his  baby  boy. 

A  PRAYER 

Make  me  to  bow,  to  bend,  to  break, 

To  lose  my  pride  and  if  needs  be 
Tear  thou  my  breast  for  thy  name's  sake, 

But  leave,  0  God,  these  things  to  me: 

Leave  thou  the  little  face  of  trust, 
The  chubby  arms  that  faithful  creep 

About  my  neck — O,  if  thou  must 

Take  all;  but  these,  God,  let  me  keep. 

Were  those  lips  dumb  I  could  not  hear, 
Were  those  eyes  set,  I  could  not  see; 

Take  what  thou  wilt,  though  priceless,  dear, 
But  leave,  O  God  these  things  to  me. 


142  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

His  depth  of  love  and  solicitude  for  the  welfare 
of  his  baby  boy  is  admirably  set  forth  in  one  of  his 
earliest  poems  entitled,  "Dear  Little  Face." 
DEAR  LITTLE  FACE 

Dear  little  face,  so  full  of  trust 

That  now  is  all  believing; 
Dear  little  face  that  some  day  must 

Find  life  filled  with  deceiving; 
Dear  little  face,  that  draws  to  mine, 

Nor  dreams  of  dreaded  danger, 
Would  I  could  keep  you  to  the  end 

To  disappointment  stranger! 

Dear  little  face,  that  asks  to  know 

The  mystery  of  living; 
Dear  little  face,  that  years  will  show 

That  life  was  made  for  giving; 
Dear  little  face,  where  lines  will  grow 

And  deepen  with  life's  sadness, 
Would  I  could  keep  you  from  the  low, 

Replacing  grief  with  gladness! 

Dear  little  face,  how  can  you  meet 

A  world,  strong  men  defying? 
Dear  little  one,  why  must  you  hear 

The  sorrowing  and  crying? 
Dear  little  face — I  dare  not  dream 

But,   praying  here   above   you, 
I  draw  you  closer  in  my  arms — 

God    knows    how    well    I    love    you! 


The  thought  of  death  seems  ever  to  have  been 
on  his  mind  when  writing.  Every  poem  reveals  it. 
The  following  are  only  a  few  of  the  many  sad  ones 
that  he  wrote : 


POETS  AND  POETRY  143 

SWEET  DEATH 

Ah,  now  I  know  that  you  who  seemed  so  cold, 

That  you  of  whom  I  felt  the  deepest  awe 

And  dread,  year  after  year;  in  whom  I  saw 

A  foe  to  bear  me  to  a  tomb  where  mould, 

Decay,  and  dampened  clods  would  me  infold, 

Are,  after  all,  my  friend.     There  is  no  flaw 

Today  I  would  amend  in  nature's  law 

Which  put  me  in  your  strange  and  subtle  hold. 

With  faith  grown  out  of  hope,  I  place  my  hand 

Thus  willingly  in  yours,  with  no  regret 

That  you  have  come.     To  gain  the  unknown  land 

Which  you  conceal,  I  gladly  pay  the  debt; 

For  this  weak,  flagging  clay  no  more  is  manned 

To  brave  life's  way,  and  timely  we  have  met. 


WHEN  ONE  FAR  MORNING  COMES 

When  one  far  morning  comes  and  I  must  lie 
Unheeding  word  or  prayer;  when  to  convey 
Unto  the  tomb  my  tired,  unshriven  clay 
Some  strangers  wait  and,  looking,  haply  sigh; 
Then  when  you  doubting  stand  and  wonder  why 
These  things  are  so  and  grieving  turn  away 
Lest  tears  and  suffering  at  last  betray 
The  love  which  you  no  longer  will  deny; 

Then  when  to  judge  e'en  false  men  will  forbear; 
Then  when  to  you  I  have  turned  cold,  severe, 
And  on  my  features  grimly  death's  mask  wear. 
Remember  as  you  speak  to  me  how  *dear 
Belated  words  will  be  that  lying  there 
So  still,  so  deaf,  I,  listening,  shall  hear. 


144  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

SOMEWHERE 

We  stand,  some  silent  friends,  around  a  bier; 
We  knew  him  in  those  years  when  hoyden  heart 
Found  relish  keen,  and  something  counterpart 
In  supercilious  life,  before  the  fear 
Of  captious  middle  age,  before  the  tear 
Of  penitence  adown  the  cheek  did  start. 
Dear  death,  if  thou  art  only  sleep,  thou  art 
The  amaranthine  friend  of  failure  here! 
Though  it  is  proved  he  was  not  born  to  lead 
His  fellow  men  in  any  wondrous  way, 
To  those  who  throw  the  lance  amiss  and  bleed, 
He  gave  such  words  of  cheer  as  he  could  say; 
For  this  alone,  from  all  its  fetters  freed, 
Somewhere  that  soul  may  find  its  peace  today. 


THE  END 

I  hear  the  dripping  from  the  eaves, 

The  eddying  of  fallen  leaves, 

I  hear  the  creaking  of  a  door, 

The  snapping  of  the  drying  floor; 

In  all,  I  hear  you  coming,  dear, 

I  think  each  moment  that  I  hear 

Your  step,  your  words  of  greeting  sound, 

But  you  are  in  the  death-shroud  wound. 

I  hear  them  say  that  you  are  dead, 

I  to  an  open  grave  am  led, — 

I  hear  a  coffin  lowering  now, 

And,  too,  some  words,  and  then  somehow, 

The  falling  earth  upon  the  lid 

Beneath  which  your  dear  face  is  hid. 

The  hour  has  come,  poor  heart,  to  break, 

To  ache,  to  ache,  to  ache,  to  ache. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  145 


WHO  IS  DEAD 

She  is  buried  on  the  hill  in  the  sand, 
Art  and  nature  have  been  there,  and  have  planned 
Well  to  keep  around  her  bed 
Lilies  white  and  roses  red; 
She  was  pure  and  too  hath  bled, 
Who  is  dead. 


So  in  life  it  was  for  her  all  along, 
Sweetest  modulations  filled  out  her  song; 
Why  need,  then,  poor  words  be   said? 
Why  should  tears  for  her  be  shed? 
Let  heartsease  for  her  be  spread, 
Who  is  dead. 

There  we  left  her  all  alone  in  the  sand, 
Art  and  nature  understood,  and  have  planned 
Well  to  keep  around  her  bed 
Lilies  white  and  roses  red, 
She  was  pure  and  too  hath  bled 
Who  is  dead. 


It  would  be  unfair  to  the  young  poet  not  to 
publish  in  full  "God's  Plan,"  a  verse  of  which  was 
quoted  at  the  beginning  of  this  review. 

GOD'S  PLAN 

We  fill  a  place  in  God's  own  plan,  divine  this  life  we  live, 

The  mystery  pervading  it  a  charm  to  life  doth  give. 

While  we  seek  through  the  unstarred  night  the  solving  of  our 

state, 
Omnipotent,  an  unseen  hand  doth  build  for  each  his  fate. 


146  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

We   do  not  fret  when  autumn   shades   are   growing  on   the 

leaves, 

Nor  that  a  scheming  spider  for  his  prey  a  network  weaves, 
We  know  the  summer  foliage  has  served  its  useful  days, 
We  know  the  plan  of  insect  life  is  just  in  all  its  ways. 

More  wonderful  is  HOW  we  live  than  that  we  have  an  end, 
And  whence  we  came,  life's  mystery  doth  all  these  things 

transcend ; 

But  yet  we  stand  and  ask  to  know  the  working  of  the  plan 
Which  God  alone  is  justly,  surely  working  out  for  man. 

As  children  do  we  stand  and  weep  beside  a  mother's  knee, 
And  let  a  soft  caress  dispel  the  fear  we  cannot  see, 
We  give  each  day  to  human  hands  our  confidence  and  trust, 
But  hesitate  to  give  to  His,  which  only  can  be  just. 

We   shape   our  deeds   by   mortal   signs   and   trust   a   human 

tongue, 

While  He  hath  in  a  key  divine  through  endless  ages  rung 
The  music  of  the  wandering  wind,  the  listless  wave  of  sea, 
And  sung  for  man's  discordant  ear  harmonious   symphony. 

The  power  which  placed  the  fixed  stars  above  the  oceans  blue, 
Which  keeps  the  fieldmouse  through  the  snow  and  wets  the 

flowers  with  dew 
Which  grows  the  wee-faced  daisy  where  it  guides  the  planets 

true, 
Will  shape  for  you  and  me,  my  lad,  our  course,  and  truly, 

too. 


Another  poem  of  his  that  is  worthy  of  preserva- 
tion is  the  following : 


POETS  AND  POETRY  147 

LIFE  IS  A  LITTLE  THING 

Life  is  a  little  thing;  what,  no  one  knows, 
The  mystery  unbidden  comes  and  goes. 
Birtheries  are  met  and  stifled  in  the  air 
By  wailings  for  the  dead  arising  there. 
We  do  not  know  we  live  before  we  find 
The  end  is  near.     Life  is  a  little  thing, 
why  should  we  mind? 

Life  is  a  little  thing;  a  bending  reed, 
No  seeming  mission  but  to  break  and  bleed; 
Assiduous  care  may  make  the  weed  a  flower, 
Yet  it  must  have  at  last  its  fateful  hour, 
When  bruised  it  hangs  upon  a  broken  stem, 
But  weep  not  for  the  flowers.     Life  is  a  little  thing 
to  them. 

Life  is  a  little  thing  of  days  and  years 
Filled  in  with  morning  suns  and  raining  tears, 
Some  furrows  deep  and  some  unbroken  sod, 
The  plowing  deep  or  shallow  lies  with  God. 
What  matters  it  to  us  how  days  shall  be 
Of  sun  or  rain?     Life  is  a  little  thing  to  you  and 
me. 

Life  is  a  little  thing;  then  bid  it  go — 

Why  do  men  cling  to  that  which  hurts  them  so? 

If  life  is  fight,  and  death  the  battle  won, 

Lay  down  your  arms,  let  mystery  be  undone. 

If  heaven  is  gained  with  but  a  single  leap, 

Why  all  this  fear?     Life  is  a  little  thing  to  nurse 

and  keep. 


148  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Life  is  a  little  thing;  then  why  this  dread 
Of  some  few  weary  miles  that  stretch  ahead? 
Speed  on  today — take  life  at  its  best  worth, 
Tomorrow's  sun  may  find  you  lost  to  earth. 
Tomorrow  of  today  is  but  the  test. 
Do  what  you  can.     Life  is  a  little  thing  to  live  at 
best. 

Life  is  a  little  thing  that  lies  between 
A  world  we  know  and  worlds  that  are  unseen. 
A  modulation  in  a  minor  key, 
From  what  was  once  to  that  which  yet  must  be; 
The  ages  keep  the  harmony  complete, 
And  in  the  plan,  life  is  a  little  thing  that  we  must 
meet. 


Other  equally  charming  selections  of  Lawton's 
are :  "Together" — a  dainty  little  touch  of  disappoint- 
ment in  love :  "You  Went  Away" — a  sister  piece  to 
the  former ;  "Failure" — a  ringing  command  to  duty ; 
"Limits,"  "Apart,"  "Ambition,"  "After  Glow," 
"November,"  "Sorrow's  Weed,"  "Point  Me  the 
Way,"  "The  Fireplace,"  "Winter,"  "Triolet,"  "A 
Little  Ring,"  "That  Day,"  and  "May  Apple  Blos- 
soms." 


Mrs.  Flora  Shufelt-Rivola 

Biographical — Born,  Toledo,  Ohio,  Dec.  1,  1881.  Came  to 
Dakota,  1884.  Educated,  rural  schools,  Yankton  high  school 
and  Yankton  College  Academy.  Married  Charles  E.  Rivola 
July  22,  1903.  Mother  of  three  children — two  girls  and  one 
boy. 


MRS.  FLORA  SHUFELT-RIVOLA 

A  new  poetess  who  appeared  above  the  literary 
horizon  at  the  opening  of  the  year,  1915,  and  who 
found  immediate  recognition,  is  Mrs.  Flora  Shufelt- 
Rivola,  of  Yankton.  Her  poems,  although  semi- 
confessional  of  her  own  personal  experiences,  are, 
nevertheless,  general  in  their  application;  so  much 
so  that  she  has  found  a  ready  sale  for  them  among 
the  leading  publishers  of  the  United  States.  Only 
a  few  of  the  many  she  has  written  during  the  past 
year,  are  herein  given. 

ELUSIVE 

(Springfield,    Mass.,    Republican.) 

I  may  not  bind  the  Muse  and  hold  her  fast 
At  will,  as  gracefully  she  flutters  past: 
I  may  not  lure  her  to  my  hold  and  catch 
Her  tresses,  when  the  moon  is  on  the  thatch; 

But  on  a  vagrant  wind  there  comes  to  me 
A  fancy,  sweet  and  glad  and  fine  and  free; 
And  in  a  trice  I  catch  the  luring  thought 
And  pinion  it,  and  lo!  a  poem's  wrought. 


TARRYING 

(From  the  Minneapolis  Journal.) 

I  looked  toward  the  celestial  shore; 
Cried,  "Let  me  go." 
Accoutrements  of  earthly  life 
Do  bind  me  so. 


152  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

My  soul  would  soar  in  wond'rous  flight, 
And  I  should  be 
So  happy,  having  His  own  light 
Ashine   on  me. 

And  then,  I  heard  a  soft,  sweet  voice 

Which  whispers   still, 

"Could  ye  not  tarry  with  Me,  here 

If  'tis  My  will?" 

Then,  taking  up  my  cross,  I  walked 

Upon  the  road; 

Praying  the  while,  for  worthiness 

To    share    His    load. 


LITTLE  MAN  OF  YESTERDAY 

(Springfield,    Mass.,    Republican.) 

Little,  little  lad  of  mine, 
With  your  show  of  courage  fine; 
Oh!  'tis  brave  I'd  have  you  be. 
But  your  mother's  eyes  can  see 
Deep  inside,  all  hid  away, 
Things  your  lips  may  never  say. 

Little  man  of  yesterday, 

Singing  as  you  march  away; 

The  good  God  who  knows  all  things 

Knows  the  hearts  of  men  and  kings; 

God  and  mother  see  the  ache, 

Though  so  brave  a  part  you  take. 

Little  man  of  yesterday, 

Common  folks  have  had  to  pay 

In  the  coin  of  pain  and  tears, 

For  the  wars,  all  through  the  years. 

Still  our  lips  will  smile  today, 

Smile,  the  while  you  march  away. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  153 

Oh!  I  wonder,  does  the  king 

Know  how  great,  how  grave  a  thing 

'Tis  to  take  my  little  lad; 

All  the  child  your  mother  had, 

Must  you  go  the  long,  long  way? 

Little  man  of  yesterday. 


THE  TYRO 

(Cedar   Rapids,   Iowa,   Republican.) 

I'm  but  a  tyro  and  I  cannot  say 

The  things  I  feel  in  an  artistic  way, 

But  when  the  first  rose  blooms  beside  my  door 

And  when  spring's  sunshine  flecks  with  gold  my  floor, 

Then,  do  I  feel  the  selfsame  urge  as  they 

Who  have  "arrived"  in  an  artistic  way. 

And  when  my  baby  boy,  sweet,  cuddles  up 
I  know  what  David  meant  about  the  cup 
That  runneth  over;  when  in  John's  dear  eye 
I  see  love's  soft  light  gleaming,  why  then,  I 
Know,  too,  "Home  keeping  hearts  are  happiest," 
When  with  love's  light  I  thus  am  soft  caressed. 

When  in  my  ears  the  age-old  world  pain  moans 

I  feel  a  call  to  utter  it  in  tones 

That  may  not  be  so  carelessly  laid  by, 

But  spur  men's  hearts  to  action;  when  I  try 

The  wizardry  of  words  quite  fails  me;  I  may  yet 

Depict  the  woes  my  heart  cannot  forget. 

To  be  a  tyro  ever — fail  to  say 

The  things  I  feel  in  an  artistic  way, 

May  hold  more  possibilities  of  pain 

Than  hope  of  any  sweet  that  I  may  gain; 

Yet  deep  within  I  share  the  wonder  part 

Of  that  which  every  poet  holds  within  his  heart. 


154  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

TREASURES 

(Sioux   City   Journal.) 

I  once  had  a  friend  whom  I  thought  to  the  end 

Must  needs  cleave  to  my  soul; 
She  went  away  from  me  one  day 

To  reach  a  higher  goal; 
Oh!  it  isn't  the  flowers  and  it  isn't  the  showers 

Of  tears  that  fall  so  fast; 
But  the  message  fraught  with  our  love  we  brought 

To  our  dear  ones  in  the  past. 

I  had  one  nearer,  to  me  far  dearer 

Than  other  loved  things  are, 
But  one  sad  night  he  took  his  flight 

To  some  ethereal  star. 
Oh!  it  isn't  the  pain  and  it  isn't  the  rain 

Of  tears  on  a  coffin  lid; 
But  the  spirit  we  showed,  the  love  we  bestowed, 

The  kindly  thing  we  did. 

Kind  deeds  are  treasure,  but  One  can  measure 

To  store  within  the  breast; 
A  healing  balm  to  bring  hearts  calm, 

When  dear  ones  are  at  rest. 
For  the  stinging  scorch  of  remorse's  torch 

When  through  long  hours  we  weep 
Is  the  bitt'rest  woe  that  hearts  e'er  know 

When  silently  they  sleep. 

Then  let  us  give,  while  yet  they  live, 

Our  love  in  fullest  measure; 
'Twill  ease  our  pain  when  hot  tears  rain 

And  be  our  lasting  treasure. 
For  it  isn't  the  pain  and  it  isn't  the  rain 

Of  tears  on  a  coffin  lid, 
But  the  spirit  we  showed,  the  love  we  bestowed, 

The  kindly  thing  we  did. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  155 

IN  THE  AFTERGLOW 

(The  Christian   Herald.) 

Mother  o'  mine,  in  the  afterglow 

Of  mothering  years,  I  love  you  so; 

For  loving  me  e'er  life  I  knew, 

When  next  your  heart  a  new  life  grew; 

Loving  me  on  into  fair  childhood, 

When  I  so  little  understood 

The  long,  hard  way  we  all  must  go, 

Mother  o'  mine,  I  love  you  so. 

Loving  me,  too,  when  life  so  sweet 

Tempted  my  wayward,  girlish  feet 

Away  from  paths  of  truth  and  right 

To  paths  that  lead  to  sin's  dark  night; 

Winning  me  back  with  loving  tone 

To  ways  that  you  had  made  your  own 

By  struggle  and  stress  and  pain  and  prayer, 

By  love's  own  cords  you  held  me  there. 

Mother  o'  mine,  'tis  mine  to  take 

The  burdensome  load,  the  stress,  the  ache, 

That  come  in  motherhood's  fair  years, 

The  joy,  the  pain,  the  love,  the  tears; 

'Tis  mine  to  give  what  you  gave  me. 

Mother  o'  mine,  I  would  faithful  be 

To  the  highest  note  in  the  song  you  taught 

My  girlish  lips,  the  music  fraught 

With  all  the  mother  hopes  and  fears, 

That  fill  to  the  brim  the  mothering  years. 

Mother  o'  mine,  in  the  afterglow 
Of  motherhood's  years,  I  thank  you  so 
For  gifts  to  me  from  out  your  heart. 
At  thoughts  that  rise  my  hot  tears  start; 
God  give  me  ways  to  make  you  know 


156  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

How  great  is  my  love  before  you  go 
Away  to  rest  from  your  mothering; 
I  would  remove  life's  every  sting, 
And  give  you  rest  in  the  afterglow, 
For,  mother  o'  mine,  I  love  you  so. 


LIFE'S  LARGESS 

(Sioux   City   Journal.) 

Whatever  life  may  have  withheld, 

It,  yet,  has  offered  this : 
Unto  my  thirsty  lips  it  gave 

A  woman's  cup  of  bliss; 
To  stand  upon  the  mountain  crags 

Where  heaven's  winds  blow  free, 
Up  climbing  to  these  wonder  heights, 

Dear,  hand  in  hand  with  thee. 

There  have  been  nights  when  solemn  stars 

Marched   up   the  milky   way 
Which  have  been  rivaled  only  by 

The  splendor  of  the  day; 
And  little  sheltered  nooks  where  we 

Have  rested  at  the  noon 
In  chill  of  cold  December  and 

In  glories  of  sweet  June. 

And  thrice  into  our  lives  has  crept 

A  little  breath  of  God, 
Each  breath  but  adding  fragrance  sweet 

Unto  the  way  we  trod; 
And  in  the  hush  before  the  dawn 

That  ushers  in  age's  morn 
I  stand  me,  grateful  for  life's  rose, 

Forgetful   of  its  thorn. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  157 

Whatever  life  may  have  withheld, 

It,  yet,  has  offered  this: 
Unto  my  thirsty  lips  it  gave 

A  woman's  cup  of  bliss; 
And  from  these  heights  I  reach  my  arms 

To  heaven  in  thankfulness 
That  I  have,  here,  been  clothed  upon 

With  its  own  perfect  dress, 

And  recognize  its  pricelessness 

The  while  I  wore  the  gown ; 
The  golden,  glowing  stuff  of  it 

Has  never  seemed  dull  brown; 
So  far  and  free  I  stand  me  forth 

Here  on  the  mountain  heights, 
A-singing  songs  of  gladness  for 

Life's  gift  and  its  delights. 

Why  need  we  question  of  those  things 

Which  life  may  have  withheld, 
Since,  from  the  primer  of  the  world 

Our  grateful  lips  have  spelled 
One  word,  which  made  life's  meaning  clear, 

Its  mystery  and  charm 
Wrapped  in  that  word  which  wards  our  souls 

From  any  dire  alarm. 


IF  WHEN  I  PASS 

(Sioux   City  Journal.) 

If  when  I  pass,  these  things  of  me  be  said: 

She  soothed  an  ache,  she  stanched  a  wound  that  bled; 

Her  heart  was  ever  open  to  the  day, 

She  went  in  humble  service  on  her  way, 

Giving  to  this  worn  one  a  cheery  smile, 

That  threatened  more  than  one  lone  heart  could  bear; 

With  those  that  hungered,  she  her  bread  did  share. 


158  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

In  withered  bloom  beheld  the  seeds  of  life; 
Her  faith  reached  out  unto  the  end  of  strife. 
She  held  high  courage  in  Despair's  own  face, 
And  to  her  Father  whispered  daily  grace 
For  life  and  love,  for  trials  that  make  strong: 
Unto  the  morning  sunshine  added  song. 
She  planted  flowers  and,  then,  shared  the  bloom; 
Within  her  home  she  ever  could  find  room 
For  such  as  needed  succor  for  the  night. 
Within  her  window  kept  a  beacon  light, 
That  spoke  of  hope  to  those  who  walk  the  dusk. 
She  made  a  feast  for  him,  who,  eating  husk, 
Came  to   himself  and  turned   again   back  home; 
And  sent  a  prayer  out  after  those  j;hat  roam: 
If  when  I  pass,  these  things  of  me  be  said 
I  shall  not  need  more  flowers  for  my  bed. 

E'en  while  I  write  the  human  heart  denies 

The  citadel  whereto  I  lift  my  eyes; 

Yet  do  I  know  a  fount  of  strength  awaits 

The  heart  with  courage  strong  to  storm  the  gates. 


PROGRESS 

(From  "The  Masses"  Magazine,  New  York.) 

I  was  a  mountain  girl, 

I  know,  now,  they  call  us  poor  mountain  whites: 

There  is  a  school  in  the  valley,  a  college,  where  my  little 

sister  goes; 

I  was  twelve  years  old  when  she  was  born 
And  in  four  more  years  I  was  married, 
Married — but  I  had  no  courtship — no  romance: 
I  must  have  had  beauty  once, 
They  say  I  looked  like  Sue  does  now. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  159 

I  could  read  a  little  and  Sue  has  brought  me  books, 

Books  that  have  interpreted  to  me  the  unsatisfied,  longing 

ache  of  the  years. 

I  married  a  bloke,  like  my  father  and  my  brother; 
When  he  asked  me  to  mate  up- with  him  it  was  only  that — 
As  an  animal  might  seek  his  kind — 
The  birds  and  flowers  and  youth  and  love  and  spring 
Meant  nothing  to  him; 
And  I,  unknowing,  answered  the  call  of  our  animal  selves 

and  married  him; 

Now,  when  I  am  coming  to  know  through  books  and   Sue, 
How  it  all  might  have  been,  I  am  faded  and  old  and  coarse; 
My  teeth  are  yellow  and  my  hands  hard  with  callous; 
My  cheeks  have  brown  patches  where  once  the  roses  of  spring 

bloomed. 

Sue  has  a  follower,  a  young  Professor  of  the  school, 

Who  has  taught  her  with  his  fine  manner  and  easy  grace  to 

be  a  lady; 

He  reads  poetry  to  her  and  brings  her  roses  with  dew  on  them, 
And  pictures — one  a  madonna  and  child — 
I  look  and  look  at  it  and  then  I  look  at  my  own  daughter, 
And  think  of  the  mother  I  might  have  been 
And  the  father  I  might  have  given  her. 

Tonight  I  shall  tell  her  of  my  late  awakening 

And  my  dreams  for  her; 

The  callous  on  these  hands  shall  grow  thicker  with  toil, 

That  she  may  go  to  the  college  in  the  valley, 

And  learn  to  be  a  lady. 


Doane  Robinson 

Biographical — Born,  near  Sparta,  Wis.,  Oct.  19,  1856. 
Attended  country  school.  Migrated  to  Minnesota.  Taught 
school  for  five  winters.  Read  law.  Graduated,  Wisconsin 
Law  school,  1883.  Established  himself  in  practice  of  law  at 
Watertown,  S.  D.  Gave  up  law  for  editorial  work.  Published 
"Monthly  South  Dakotan"  for  a  number  of  years.  Married 
Jennie  Austin,  of  Leon,  Wis.,  in  1884.  Father  of  two  sons. 
Author  of  a  number  of  prose  works  and  of  one  volume  of 
poems.  State  Historian  for  South  Dakota  since  January  23, 
1901.  Also  author  and  editor  of  (to  date — 1916)  seven  large 
volumes  of  State  Historical  reports. 


DOANE  ROBINSON 

Hon.  Doane  Robinson  must  be  dealt  with  in  the 
field  of  poetry  and  prose,  as  he  has  been  prolific  in 
both.  As  a  poet  his  work  is  confined  mostly  to 
dialect  verse.  His  early  poetry  was  first  published 
in  the  Century  Magazine,  the  Arena  Magazine,  the 
Great  Divide  and  other  periodicals.  Later,  these 
poems  were  collected  and  published  by  the  Gazette 
Printing  Company,  of  Yankton,  in  a  volume  of  verse 
entitled  "Midst  The  Coteaus  of  Dakota."  It  contains 
forty-five  of  Robinson's  poems  that  were  written 
and  published  prior  to  1900.  The  book  is  artistically 
illustrated  by  Edwin  M.  Waterbury.  From  it  have 
been  culled  the  four  following  poems  as  indicative 
of  Robinson's  style — two  dialect  poems  and  two 
non-dialect  ones.  While  the  first  two  are  somewhat 
reminiscent  and  filled  with  mirth,  yet  in  his  "Peace 
Hymn  of  The  United  States,"  he  mounts  to  consider- 
able power. 

IN  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Takin'  an'  layin'  by  all  jokes, 

We're  lots  smarter  than  other  folks 
In  South  Dakota. 

Had  the  advantage,  plumb  from  the  start, 

Bein',  that  most  of  us  come  here  smart; 

And  rubbin'  agin  the  itinerant  air 

Hez  sharpened  us  up,  'til  at  last,  I  swear, 

Half  of  us  farmers  knows  a  heap 

More  of  wool-tariffs  than  raisin'  sheep 
In  South  Dakota. 


162  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Just  about  all  of  us  come  out  here 

To  run  for  the  senate.     It  do  appear 

That  them  that  would  take  the  governorship, 

Rather  than  let  opportunities  slip, 

Ain't  more  thought  of  than  any  scrub 

Legislator.     But  there's  one  rub — 

When  there's  a  seat  in  the  senate  to  spare, 

Most  of  us  always  don't  git  our  share 

In  South  Dakota. 

But  we've  got  big  hearts  and  open  hands 
And  we  never  sulks,  and  we  never  stands 
A  tryin'  to  hinder,  by  some  low  muss, 
A  man  that  is  smarter  than  any  of  us, 
But  all  of  us  hurries  to  recognize 
The  boss-smart  fellow  that  wins  the  prize; 
Then  we  goes  on  seedin'  our  black-muck  lands 
While  the  buntins  sing  and  the  gulls  fly  low 
A  watchin'  the  gophers  plunder  the  corn, 
And  the  nestin'  robins  come  and  go 
With  critters  hair,  by  the  barb-fence  torn;— 
Brown  smoke  rolls  up  from  the  blazin'  slough 
Where  last  year's  grass  chokes  back  the  new, 
And  the  wild  cock's  rumble  fills  the  air 
From  the  hills  where  smoky  shadows  mope, 
And  out  by  the  barn  the  stock-hogs  swear, 
And  the  spring  calf  tugs  at  its  picket  rope; 
While   the  summer  grows   'til  the  harvest's   due 
And  the  wheat  turns  gold,  and  the  corn  is  fair, 
But  our  biggest  yield  is  the  crop  of  hope, 

In  South  Dakota. 


HERDING 

No  end  of  rich  green  medder  land 
Spicked  out  with  every  kind  of  poseys. 
Es  fer  as  I  kin  understand 
They's  nothin'  else  on  earth  so  grand 


POETS  AND  POETRY  163 

Es  just  a  field  of  prairy  roseys, 
Mixed  up  with  blue,  gold-beaded  plumes 
Of  shoestring  flowers  and  peavey  blooms. 
Take  it  a  warm,  sunshiny  day 
When  prairies  stretch  so  fer  away 
Ther  lost  at  last  in  smoky  gray, 
And  hulkin'  yoke-worn  oxen  browse 
Around  the  coteaus  with  the  cows, — 
The  tipsey,  stag'rin'  day-old  calf 
Mumbles  a  bleat  and  slabbers  a  laugh, — 
And  yearlin'  steers  so  round  and  slick 
Wade  in  the  cool  and  sparklin'  crick, 
While  cute  spring  bossies  romp  and  play 
With  Ponto,  in  the  tall  slough  hay, 
Yeh  picket  out  the  gentle  Roany, 
Yer  konwin',   faithful,   herdin'   pony, 
And  tumblin'  down  upon  yer  back 
Wher'    gay,    sweet-smelling    beauties    bide 
In  posey  beds,  three  counties  wide, 
You  take  a  swig  of  prairie  air, 
With  which  old  speerits  can't  compare, 
And  think,  and  plan,  and  twist,  and  rack 
Yer  brains,  to  work  some  scheme  aroun' 
To  get  a  week  to  spend  in  town. 


PEACE  HYMN  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES 

Thou   who   hast   fattened   us   with   wealth   and    steeled    our 

arms  with  power, 
Choose  us  thy  sentinels,  to  watch  from  Freedom's  signal 

tower, 
Give  us  that  gentle  spirit  which  ennobles  and  uplifts. 

Teach  us  to  use  for  righteousness  thy  fair  imperial  gifts. 


164  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Thou  who  hast  kept  a  continent  for  our  dominion  free, 
And  builded  walls  of  patriot  hearts  forfending  either  sea, 

Declare  to  us  that  wisdom  which  shall  measure  and  divide, 
Between  respect  and  dignity,  and  arrogance  and  pride. 

Direct  us,  Lord,  lest  through  our  lapse  thy  righteous  purpose 

fail, 

Let  not  the  strength  thou  giveth  us,  for  evil  power  avail, 
But  let  our  navies  arbitrate,  and  send  our  arms  and  might, 
To  plead  the  cause  and  'fend  the  laws  of  people  weak,  but 
right. 

Make  us,  oh  God,  thy  heralds  swift  to  bear  thy  peace  and  light 
To  shores  where  men  in  terror  writhe  beneath  oppression's 
blight, 

But  Father,  never  let  our  shield  be  stained  by  grasping  lust; 
Make  thou  our  grand  eulogium,  "A  nation  that  is  just." 


ON  THE  RETURN  OF  THE  1st   REGIMENT 
FROM  MANILA 

Oh,  Thou  who  set  the  continents  to  guard  old  Ocean's  isles 
And    bade    us    keep    our    brothers    through    world-encircling 

miles, 

We  come  to  Thee,  Oh  Father,  with  thankful,  joyful  song — 
The  hearty  praise  of  hopeful  folk  in  measure  full  and  strong. 

From  fevered,  tropic,  sea-girt  lands,  back  to  Dakota's  plain, 
By  Thy  permission,  Father,  our  brothers  sail  again; 
They  bear  unsullied  banners,  heroes  of  glorious  days; 
Not  vauntingly  but  humbly  we  give  to  Thee  the  praise. 

We  fathom  not  thy  purposes;  Oh,  why  should  some  remain 
To    sleep    in    jungle-smothered    graves?      God    make    Thy 
meaning  plain; 


POETS  AND  POETRY  165 

We  know  Thou  art  a  tender  friend  and  merciful  Thy  ways, — 
Thy  will  be  done,  Oh  Father,  accept  our  love  and  praise. 
And,  Father,  make  us  worthier  of  these  courageous  sons 
Whose  valor  carried  liberty  to  Thy  benighted  ones, 
And  whenj  our  greeting  over,  war's  panoply  they  yield, 
Make  them  as  great  in  peace,  Oh  God,  as  on  the  battlefield. 


During  the  winter  of  1915-16,  Robinson  issued 
a  pamphlet,  entitled  "Teaks,"  containing  poetic 
eulogies  to  ten  of  the  leading  citizens  of  South  Da- 
kota— those  who  tower  above  their  fellowmen,  like 
Harney  towers  above  its  fellow  peaks  in  the  Black 
Hills.  In  it  are  found  several  of  this  author's  best 
efforts.  The  general  introduction  to  it  reads: 

THE  PEAKS 

We  passed   through  the   clustering   hills   that   buttress   the 

mountain  wall, 
And  one  was  the  mate  of  his  fellow,  and  we  said,  "How  alike 

are  all." 
But  when   we   had   crossed   the   vale   and   turned  from   the 

opposite  height, 
Above  its  mates   one  hoary  peak  loomed  high  in  majestic 

might. 

We  passed  through  the  busy  multitude  of  earnest,  ambitious 

men, 
And  one  was  the  mate  of  his  fellow  and  all  were  alike  to  our 

ken; 
But  we  crossed  the  valley  of  Time.    From  the  heights  beyond 

the  creek 
We  measured  the  men  again,  and  one  was  a  mountain  peak. 


166  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

The  first  one  of  the  ten  "peaks"  selected  by 
Robinson  is  Bishop  Hare,  founder  of  All  Saints 
^chool  at  Sioux  Falls,  and  who  was  for  thirty-five 
years  a  Protestant-Episcopal  missionary  in  the 
Dakota  field.  Of  him  the  author  says : 

THE  KINDLING  SPLITTER 

("The  Church  is  continually  using  a  razor  to  split  kindling,"  exclaimed 
a  bishop  who  disapproved  calling  William  Hobart  Hare  from  the  general 
secretaryship  of  Foreign  Missions  to  make  him  bishop  to  the  Sioux 
Indians.) 

Darkness  and  cold  held  a  nation  in  bond, — 

Cruel  and  killing  the  bite  of  the  gyves, 
Hopeless  and  ruthless  degenerate  men 

Wasted  their  barren,  unprofiting  lives. 
Came  then  the  splitter  of  kindling,  aglow, — 

Facile  his  dexter  hand;  keen  was  his  blade, — 
Forests  of  Paynim  to  tinder  he  hewed; 

Food  for  the  match  where  Faith's  fagots  were  laid. 
Flashes  the  spark  where  the  flint  batters  steel, — 

Prayer  bellows  the  flame;  quick,  fervid  the  heat, — 
A  people  regenerate,  hopeful  and  free, 

Lay  bountiful  gifts  at  Elohim's  feet. 

A  BISHOP'S  BLESSING 

The  lodge  of  The  Grass,  squat  on  the  drought-burned  plain, 
Smote  by  the  pitiless  sun.     The  good  gray  bishop  came, 
And  as  he  gave  his  hand  in  greeting,  the  blessed  rain 
Fell  unannounced,  refreshing,  sweet.     "Ever  the  same," 
The  old  chief  gravely  said;  "this  good  man  always  brings 
A  blessing  to  this  lodge.     Today  he  opens  Heaven's  spring." 


POETS  AND  POETRY  167 

The  following  poem  of  Robinson's,  taken  from 
the  Minneapolis  Journal,  just  as  we  were  going  to 
press  (1916),  shows  him  at  his  best: 


THE  MISSOURI'S  CALL 

I  love  the  South  Dakota  streams, 

The  singing  Rapid,  Belle  Cheyenne — 

I  see  where  silvery  Moreau  gleams — 

The  placid  Jim;  and  ever  when 

I  watch  the  dash  of  Big  Sioux  falls, 

I'm  filled  with  joy  and  cheer  the  race, 

But  when  the  great  Missouri  calls 

I  turn  obedient  to  my  place. 

There's  something  in  his  voice  that  grips 

My  very  soul;  the  master  flood 

That  flings  defiance  from  its  lips, 

And  stirs  and  fires  my  fighting  blood. 

I  bravely  vow  that  I  will  yet, 

By  some  device  entangle  it, 

And   on   its   throat  a   harness   get 

To  pull  it  down  and  strangle  it. 

Break  it,  subdue  it  to  my  will, 

Guide  it  by  bit  and  bridle, 

Serving  mankind,  nor  let  it  still 

A  vagrant  be  and  idle. 

I  feel  its  mighty  pulses  throb 

With  power  that's  still  to  measure; 

And  swear  that  it  shall  be  my  job 

Its  energy  to  treasure. 

Its  nervous  force  shall  cheer  the  lives 

Of  millions,  hence,  forever, 

To  swell  the  power  of  man  who  strives, 

And  fructify  endeavor. 


168  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

As  a  prose  writer,  Robinson  is  exceedingly  pro- 
lific. (See  Historians  in  Chapter  II.)  He  has 
written  two  large  volumes  of  the  "History  of  South 
Dakota,"  containing  25,000  words.  He  has  also 
written  a  "Brief  History  of  South  Dakota."  His 
work  as  secretary  and  superintendent  of  the  State 
Historical  Society  has  required  him  to  write  and  edit 
seven  large  volumes  of  historical  reports,  including 
his  "History  of  the  Sioux  Indians."  It  is  to  be 
regretted  that  the  state  has  not  made  sufficient  ap- 
propriation so  that  these  Historical  Reports  could 
have  been  published  in  sufficient  quantities  to  place 
a  set  in  each  public  library,  and  in  the  leading  school 
libraries,  of  the  state.  They  are  the  perfected  his- 
tory of  South  Dakota,  given  in  the  minutest  detail, 
for  over  two  centuries. 


May  Philipps-Tatro 

Biographical — Born,  Wisconsin,  1853.  Left  an  orphan  at 
two  years  of  age.  Married  Frank  R.  Chubb,  1869.  Mother 
of  one  child — a  girl.  Later,  married  George  Tatro.  Member 
Author's  Club  of  Minneapolis.  Contributor  to  magazines; 
also  to  Minneapolis  Times.  Wide-read  poetess.  Died  at 
Bowdle,  S.  D.,  April  16,  1901. 


MAY  PHILLIPS-TATRO 

In  a  grass-covered  grave  in  the  village  of 
Bowdle,  this  state,  marked  only  by  a  small  undated 
tombstone,  bearing  the  inscription,  "To  Our  Gifted 
May  Phillips-Tatro,"  lies  a  woman  whose  great  heart 
once  beat  with  an  exuberance  of  joy  over  the  rich- 
ness of  Dakota  prairie  life — the  songs  of  the  birds, 
the  melodies  of  spring,  the  crackling  of  the  wheat, 
and  the  "smell  of  new-mown  hay."  As  will  readily 
be  seen,  by  comparison,  Mrs.  Tatro  easily  takes  first 
rank,  to  date,  among  our  lady  singers. 

Mrs.  Tatro  was  on  intimate  terms  with,  and 
was  recognized  by,  the  leading  authors  of  the  nation. 
On  the  back  of  the  old  photograph,  reproduced  here- 
with, was  written  the  following  tribute  to  her,  by  the 
American  poet,  Walt  Whitman : 

In  the  evening,  when  everything  is  quiet,  I  love  to  sit 
with  May  Phillips-Tatro,  and  listen  to  what  that  beautiful 
spirit  has  to  tell  me  of  the  night,  sleep,  death,  the  stars, 
flowers  and  all  that  she  knew  and  so  greatly  revered;  such 
great  love — such  rapture  of  jubilant  love  of  nature — and  the 
good  green  grass  and  trees  and  clouds  and  sunlight;  such 
aching  anguish  of  love  for  all  that  breathes  and  is  sick  and 
sorrowful;  such  longing  to  help  and  mend  and  comfort  that 
which  never  can  be  helped  and  mended  and  comforted;  such 
eager  looking  to  delicate  death  as  the  one  complete  and 
final  consolation. 

With  her,  as  with  Lawton,  the  state  suffered  a 
distinct  literary  loss  through  her  early  demise.  She 
was  one  of  the  most  inspirational  writers,  of  either 


172  ,   LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

sex,  that  the  state  has  thus  far  developed.  Many  of 
her  best  poems  are  not  premeditated,  labored  efforts, 
but  are  rather  the  result  of  a  sudden  impulse — a 
genuine  melodic  inspiration  springing  from  the  hu- 
man heart.  Such  was  the  manner  in  which  she 
wrote  "In  Hayin'  Time."  Mr.  Ed.  S.  Whittaker,  a 
reader  trained  at  Dakota  Wesleyan  University,  ac- 
companied by  a  ladies'  quartet  from  that  institution, 
was  giving  a  recital  at  Bowdle,  the  home  of  Mrs. 
Tatro.  In  his  repertoire  he  recited  James  Whitcomb 
Riley's  "Knee  Deep  In  June."  Mrs.  Tatro  was  in  the 
audience.  She  caught  the  inspiration  of  the  occasion, 
and,  upon  going  home,  seized  her  pen  and  dashed 
off  a  companion  piece  to  it — "In  Hayin'  Time" — 
before  she  went  to  bed.  It  was  a  splendid  achieve- 
ment, and  its  delightful  rhythm  will  appeal  to  lovers 
of  verse  for  years  to  come.  She  dedicated  the  poem 
to  Mr.  Whittaker.  The  people  of  Bowdle  were  so 
pleased  with  his  readings  that  they  invited  him  back 
for  a  second  entertainment.  Upon  this  occasion  he 
read  Mrs.  Tatro's  inspirational  poem  which  follows : 

IN  HAYIN'  TIME 

(Dedicated  to  Mr.  Ed.  S.  Whittaker). 

Tell  you  what  I  like  the  best  of  anything  on  earth, 

An'  it's  about  the  last  of  June  it  has  its  natural  birth; 

It  comes  a  kind  o'  lazy  like  an'  spreads  itself  around 

An'  what  ain't  floatin'  in  the  air  just  settles  on  the  ground. 

The  smell  it  has,  I'm  tellin'  you,  ain't  no  imported  scent, 


POETS  AND  POETRY  173 

But  just  a  breath  from  heaven  you  think  God  must  have  lent. 
These  perfume  chaps  have  somethin'  ther'  a  callin'  "New- 
mown  hay." 
But,  landy  sakes,  my  hayin'  smell  discounts  it  any  day. 


The  codiments  that  make  it  up  in  no  way  ran  be  beat, 
An'  if  you've  never  heard  it,  I'll  give  you  the  receipt. 
Take    twelve   long   hours    brimmin'    full    and    spillin'    every- 
where 
Of  the  yellerest  kind  of  sunshine  an'  the  softest  wafts   of 

air; 

Now  mix  these  up  with  smells  that  come  a  wafted  to  and  fro 
From  pastur'  lots  an'  woods  an'  fields  an'  where  pond  lilies 

grow, 

An'  posies  from  the  garden,  an'  you'll  need  an  extra  mess 
Of  pine,  wild  rose,  an'  such  as  these  proportioned  more  or 

less, 

Then  add  your  clover  red  an'  white  an'  this  receipt  of  mine 
Will  furnish  you  what  I  shall  call  the  smell  in  hayin'  time. 

I'd  ruther  loaf  around  the  field  an'  hear  the  mower  hum 
Than  see  the  biggest  show  on  earth,  that's  what  I  would,  .by 

gum. 

I  like  to  lop  among  the  hay  an'  sort  a  doze  an'  dream. 
Then  wake  again,  then  drowse  some  more  till  life  begins  to 

seem 

Like  them  queer  poets  tell  about,  an'  then  I  lay  an'  think 
An'  watch  the  shadders  patchin'  round  an'  dodgin'  quick-a- 

wink; 

An'  wonderin'  why  I  wasn't  made  so's  I  could  born  a  rhyme, 
I  wouldn't  write  but  one  a  year,  jest  one — in  hayin'  time. 

I'd  tell  about  the  sky-lark  with  his  gladsome  soarin'  lay, 

The  crickets  song,  an'  dronin'  bees,  an'  lumberin'  loads  o'  hay; 

I'd  speak  about  the  spring  time  when  early  mornin'  light 


174  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Trimmed    every    piled-up    haycock   with    dew-drops     blinkin* 

bright, 

Like  as  though  some  baby  stars  forgot  to  go  away 
Or   night  was    tired    of   holdin'    'em,    an'   dropped    'em   into 

day. 

But  I  can't  do  it,  farthermore,  I  ain't  agoin'  to  try — 
There  ain't  no  poems  in  some  folks,  no  more  'n  a  pig  can 

fly. 

But  there's  one  chap  that's  got  the  knack  o'  tellin'  what  he 

sees, 

An'  he  can  understand  the  whisperin'  of  the  trees 
An'  what  the  brook's  a  sayin',  an'  about  the  "Old  Swimmin' 

Hole," 
The  garter  snakes   across   your  path  an'  the  little  medder 

mole, 
The  rustling  corn,  the  old  rail  fence,  the  mornin'  dove's  soft 

call, 

The  freshness  of  the  spring  time  an'  the  colorin'  of  the  fall, 
The  glimmerin'  sheen  of  summer  an'  old  Winter's  blusterin' 

snow; 
In  fact,  there's  nothin'  nature  claims  but  what  he's  sure  to 

know. 


An'  as  you're  readin'  what  he  writes  you  f oiler  him  along, 
An',  durn  me,  if  you  don't  forget  it's  just  a  poet's  song, 
For  you  can  see  them  very  things,  an'  almost  yell  for  joy, 
For  all  the  years  they  slip  away  an'  you're  a  country  boy, 
A  craunchin'  young  green  apples,  or  a   racin'  through  the 

brush, 

Or  over  logs  a  stumblin'  into  blue-flag  bogs  ker  slush, 
Or  follerin'  'long  the  cow-path  with  your  bare  feet  shufflin' 

slow 
So's  to  hear  the  bull  frogs'  orchestra  an'  watch  the  dust  aglow 


POETS  AND  POETRY  175 

With  lightnin'  bugs.    But  there,  I  jing.     I've  hit  upon  a  plan. 
I'll  ast  Jim  Whitcomb  Riley,  for  you  know  he's  jest  the  man 
I'm  talkin'  of,  an'  see  if  he  won't  write  some  sort  o'  rhyme 
With  nothin'  in  it,  not  a  thing,  but  hayin'  time. 


Mrs.  Tatro  belonged  to  the  "Authors'  Club"  of 
Minneapolis.  She  was  one  of  its  most  gifted  mem- 
bers. Her  poems  were  always  in  demand  by  the 
Minneapolis  Tribune  which  published  a  great  many 
of  them.  Among  these  miscellaneous  poems  is  a 
dainty  one  called  "Ships  At  Sea;"  two  poems  upon 
the  seasons — one  entitled  "Spring  Upon  The 
Prairie,"  the  other,  "Indian  Summer;"  and  three 
poems  on  the  months — "April,"  "June,"  and 
"October."  Two  of  these  poems  are  here  given : 

SHIPS  AT  SEA 

There  are  many  castle  builders 
In  this  mighty  "world  on  wheels;" 
There  are  many  dreamers  dreaming 
What  rich  harvest  time  will  yield. 
We  are  waiting,  waiting,  waiting, 
For  our  ships  far  out  at  sea, 
Vaguely  dreaming,  dreaming,  dreaming 
Of  the  promised  yet  to  be. 

Will  our  ships  sail  bravely  onward — 
Weathering  storms  and  breakers  high, 
Will  the  seaman,  true  and  loyal, 
Send  a  thankful  song  on  high? 
Will  the  captain  of  the  life  boat^- 
Brave  and  dauntless  face  the  storm, 
Will  our  ships  gain  harbor  safely — 
At  the  dawning  of  the  morn? 


176  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Eagerly  we  watch  their  coming — 
Longingly  with  wishful  eyes — 
Scan  the  angry  waste  of  waters, 
And  the  dark  and  threatening  skies. 
Heavenly  Father,  quell  the  storm  king; 
Save  us  from  his  wrath,  we  pray! 
Let  our  ships  safe  gain  the  harbor 
On  the  shores  of  endless  day. 


JUNE 

O,  peerless  June!     O,  love's  own  time — 
From  out  thy  heart  pours  nature's  rhyme. 
Thy  lilting  songs  through  waves  of  light 
Beat  upward  with  the  skylark's  flight; 
Thy  fragrant  breath,  with  wooing  sigh, 
Breathes  forth  where  waxen  lilies  lie, 
And  as  thy  languorous  spell  imparts 
Its  warmth  to  their  half-dreaming  hearts — 
They  thrill  with  life!  th'  buds  unfold 
To  show  their  calyxes  of  gold. 
O,  peerless  June!     O,  love's  own  time! 
From  out  thy  heart  pours  nature's  rhyme. 

O,  peerless  June!     O,  witching  time! 
Thy  harmonies  are  all  achime. 
Thy  tilts  of  color — brilliant — gay — 
Thy  flower  wraiths  that  droop  and  sway; 
Thy  pale  moon-tints  laced  back  by  stars 
That  swing  from  twilight's  crimson  bars. 
Thy  butterflies  make  dots  between 
The  brooklet  and  the  meadow-green; 
Thy  bumble-bees  with  threatening  drone 
Protect  thee  on  thy  flower  throne. 
Rose-kissed — rose-crowned!  fair  month  atune 
With  nature's  grace — O  peerless  June. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  177 

Two  of  Mrs.  Tatro's  rhymes  entitled,  "The 
Woodland  Path,"  and  "Not  Yet,  Not  Yet,"  are 
reproduced,  so  as  to  give  the  reader  a  broader  idea 
of  her  literary  conception : 

THE  WOODLAND  PATH 

Through  the  clover,  red  and  sweet, 

Straggling  through  a  field  of  wheat, 

Down  across  the  pasture  lot 

Where  the  dandelions  dot 

With  their  golden  gleaming  tint; 

Through  the  brooklet's  lush  spearmint, 

And  the  bushes  by  the  ditch 

Where  we  cut  our  hazel  switch, 

Winding  through  the  orchard  trees 

Where  the  droning  bumblebees 

Swagger  by  on  lazy  wings; 

Under  dropping  elm,  where  swings 

Cunningly  the  hang-bird's  nest, 

Wherein,  cradled  'neath  her  breast, 

Wee  ones  rock  with  every  sigh 

Of  the  breeze  that  passes  by. 

Now  along  the  brookside's  brink; 

Where  the  cattle  splash  and  drink; 

Through  rank  bunches  of  blue  flag 

Where  the  children  loiter,  lag, 

When  from  school  they  homeward  turn, 

Walking  deep  through  mint  and  fern; 

Then  a  sigzag  way  it  takes, 

On  through  mandrake,  slough  and  brakes, 

Over  fallen  logs  it  leads, 

Bramble  bush  and  bending  reeds, 

Into  deeper,  darker  shade, 

Mossy  dell  and  flower-strewn  glade; 

Climbs  a  fence  with  broken  rail, 


178  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Through  the  corn  field  where  the  quail 

Pipes  his  cry  of,  "Wet,  more  wet!" 

On   it  goes,  until  we  let 

Down  the  barnyard  bars,  and  go 

Up  the  lane — how  well  we  know 

What  dear  spot  the  ending  hath 

Of  this  old-time,  woodland  path. 


NOT  YET,  NOT  YET 

0  weary  watcher,  not  yet,  not  yet! 
You  must  still  work  on  with  dim  eyes  wet, 
And  scan  the  waves  with  their  white-capped  foam, 
For  a  sign  of  a  sail  that  is  nearing  home. 
It  will  not  reach  you,  dear  heart,  today, 
For  your  treasure  went  sailing  away,  away 
Far  over  the  world's  great  surging  main 
And  this  must  content  you,  this  sad  refrain — 
Not  yet,  not  yet! 

Not  yet!  and  the  years  creep  slowly  by 
And  we  struggle  for  patience  and  hush  the  cry 
That  comes  from  the  soul  as  we  look  in  vain 
For  the  swift  release  from  the  toil  and  pain 
That  forms  a  part  of  our  daily  life, 
A  part  that  is  mingled  with  grief  and  strife; 
But  no!  We  must  wait  for  some  far-off  time, 
When  our  treasures  will  come,  ah,  yours  and  mine! 
Not  yet,  not  yet! 

Not  yet,  not  yet!     O  tired  heart, 

You  have  drifted  so  far  from  your  ships  apart; 

At  eventide,  when  the  sun  sinks  low, 

And  the  twilight  shadows  toss  to  and  fro, 

You  may  watch  till  the  morning's  rosy  light 


POETS  AND  POETRY  179 

Sweeps  over  the  world,  but  your  eager  sight 
Will  never  a  glimpse  of  a  white  sail  see — 
O,  when  will  my  treasures  come  back  to  me? 
Not  yet,  not  yet! 


Four  of  her  best  poem's  are  all  centered  about 
one  theme — Thanksgiving.  She  called  them  "Com- 
panion Poems,"  and  dedicated  them  "To  The  Lovers 
of  Home  And  The  Fireside."  They  really  constitute 
one  poem  in  four  parts,  and  they  are  herein  given  in 
full: 

THANKSGIVING  DAY 
Part  1. 

Stir  the  fire, 

And  let  its  light 

Put  all  grief  and  gloom  to  flight; 

Not  a  sigh 

And  not  a  tear, 

On  this  day  of  all  the  year; 

Glad  are  we 

Now  to  greet 

Those  we  love,  in  friendship  sweet; 

Merry  Voices, 

Laughter  gay, 

On  this  glad  Thanksgiving  Day. 


WELCOMING   HOME   THE   CHILDREN 
Part  2. 

'Tis  a  long,  long  time  since  we  welcomed  them  home, 
Our  children  who've  gone  away, 
But  we're  waiting  and  ready,  so  eager  and  glad, 
To  welcome  them  home  today. 


180  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

How  each  one  will  smile  and  talk,  and  perhaps, 

A  tear-drop  or  two  will  fall; 

But  not  in  sorrow,  dear  wife,  ah  no — 

For  today  we  will  see  them  all. 

All,  did  I  say?  There'll  be  one  vacant  chair; 

One  sleeps  where  the  daisies  are  white; 

But  mother,  God  knows  how  our  hearts  throbbed  and  ached, 

When  He  beckoned  our  treasure  that  night; 

So  we'll  banish  sad  thoughts,  for  the  children,  you  know, 

Must  be  merry  and  glad  today; 

We'll  clasp  their  dear  hands  as  in  "Auld  Lang  Syne," 

And  smile  in  the  old  fond  way. 

There's  Jennie,  our  patient  and  sweet-tempered  girl, 

"So  like  mother,"  we  used  to  say; 

And  Millie,  our  rollicking,  roguish  one, 

And  golden-haired,  dainty  May; 

There's  Tom,  our  oldest  and  tallest  boy, 

And  Will,  with  his  mischief  and  fun, 

And  Harry,  so  dignified,  grave  and  wise — 

He  is  our  preacher  son. 

Ah,  wife,  it  seems  but  a  dream,  or  a  day 

Since  we  rocked  our  babies  here 

And  laughed  at  their  joy,  but  when  they  wept 

We  kissed  away  each  tear. 

They  are  all  coming  home,  dear  wife,  today, 

Back  to  the  old  tree-nest; 

To  them  'tis  the  place  of  all  the  world, 

The  dearest,  the  sweetest  and  best. 

We've  decked  the  house  with  flowers  they  lore, 

And  scattered  them  everywhere, 

Old-fashioned  sweet  peas,  and  pansies,  too, 

Wood-bine   and   maiden-hair. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  181 

We've  dressed  ourselves  in  the  colors  they  like, 

And  piled  the  table  high 

With  good  things  mother  knows  how  to  make, 

From  doughnuts  to  pumpkin  pie. 

Why,  the  cat,  he  knows — our  old  yellow  Tom, 

And  the  dog — the  children's  old  Tray, 

Both  watching  so  wistfully  down  by  the  gate, 

They  know  who  is  coming  today. 

How  they'll  wander  around,  all  over  the  farm, 

And  down  in  the  woods  by  the  spring, 

I've  fixed  something  just  as  they  used  to  have — 

An  old-fashioned,  log-chain  swing; 

Perhaps  you  are  laughing — the  children  will  too, 

But  each  one  will  swing,  I  know; 

They'll  always  be  children  to  wife  and  me, 

No  matter  how  old  they  grow. 

But,  mother,  see  Tray;  how  he's  wagging  his  tail — 

Some   one   is   coming  this   way — 

Is  it  them?     Oh,  Father,  we  thank  Thee  for  this! 

Our  children  have  come  today. 

BACK  TO  THE  OLD  HOME 
Part  3. 

We're  all  at  home  beneath  the  roof 
Where  passed  our  childhood's  days: 
Ah,  father,  mother,  though  we've  strayed 
Through  life's  oft  changing  ways, 
Yet  you  still  live  within  our  hearts 
As  fondly  loved  as  when 
You  watched  and  lead  our  baby  feet — 
You  made  our  whole  world,  then. 

How  cheery,  bright  the  old  home  looks — 
The  flowers  we  love  are  here, 
All  scattered  'round  in  every  room; 
The  hands  to  us  so  dear 


^82  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Have  worked,  that  we  might  find  our  home 

Just  as  it  used  to  be 

When  we  were  birdlings  in  one  nest 

And  knelt  at  mother's  knee. 

Ah,  Tray,  old  boy!  you're  glad  we've  come — 

And  hear  old  Dobbin  neigh; 

He  was  a  colt  when  we  were  young — 

We  rode  him  every  day; 

And  there's  the  field  where  every  Spring 

We  gathered  daisies,  sweet, 

And  "Johny-jump-up's"  saucy  face 

Would  slyly  at  us  peep. 

And  there's  the  orchard — how  the  trees 
Have  grown  since  we  were  here; 
But  the  cherry  trees  we  used  to  climb 
Are  growing  old  and  sear; 
The  dove-cot  stands  upon  the  post — 
We  boys  built  that,  you  know; 
That  rustic  seat,  beneath  the  trees, 
We  made  long  years  ago. 

There's  the  meadow  bars  we  used  to  climb, 
And  the  same  old  swinging  gate. 
Through  which  we  drove  the  cows  at  night, 
And  then  we'd  play,  and  wait 
Until  the  whippoor  will's  sad  call 
Rang  through  the  new-born  night, 
And  the  Katydid  piped  forth  her  song, 
And  the  twinkling  stars  shone  bright. 

There's  something  else  we  won't  forget, 
The  dear  old  bubbling  spring; 
And  what  is  that?     Why,  can  it  be 
An  old-time,  log-chain  swing? 


POETS  AND.  POETRY  183 


We're  just  the  same  to  father  now, 
Though  years  have  slipped  away, 
Since  we  were  toddlers  at  his  side — 
We're  children  here,  today. 

Do  you  see  those  hazel  bushes  there? 

They  bring  the  dear  days  back 

When  we  used  to  gather  hazelnuts 

And  fill  our  cart  and  sack; 

And  then  we'd  spread  them  out  to  dry 

Upon  the  granary  floor; 

Oh!   sweet,  indeed,  it  is  to  come 

To  the  dear  old  home  once  more. 


But  hark!  That  sounds  like  mother's  voice — 

Just  as  she  used  to  call 

When   we  were   scattered   "round  the  farm — 

That  call  was  for  us  all; 

And  see  the  table,  loaded  down 

With   everything  that's   good; 

Mother  has  fixed  each  dish  we  like — 

Her  children  knew  she  would; 

And  now,  with  heads  bowed  low,  we  ask 

A   blessing  from   above; 

And  may  we,  next  Thanksgiving  day, 

Meet  here  with  those  we  love. 


OUR  CHILDREN  HAVE  GONE  AWAY 
Part  4. 

They've  come  and  gone,  dear  wife,  and  now 
We  are  left  alone  once  more; 
How  quiet  and  silent  the  old  home  seems ; 
Our  children's  visit  is  o'er 


184  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

And  they've  all  gone  back  to  their  homes  and  work- 
But  that  is  the  way  of  life; 
Our  birdlings  plume  their  wings  and  fly, 
But  we  have  each  other,  wife; 

And  that,  to  us,  though  our  hearts  are  old, 

Is  God's  most  precious  gift; 

Through  all  the  sadness,  pleasure,  mirth, 

Of  the  years  that  have  gone,  so  swift, 

We  have  clung  together — our  constant  hearts 

Still  beating  to  love's  sweet  tune; 

Though  they  call  us  old,  and  our  youth  has  gone, 

In  our  hearts  is  perpetual  June. 

And  our  children — how  happy  they  were,  dear  wife, 

Back  in  the  old  home-nest; 

They  seemed  to  be  glad  to  escape  from  the  world 

And  again  in  the  old  home  rest; 

They  forgot  all  their  cares,  and  were  children  again; 

The  years  that  have  gone — slipped  away, 

'Till  the  space  intervening  their  childhood  and  now, 

Seemed  only  a  dream,  or  a  day. 

How  they  talked  of  the  castles  they  used  to  build 

In  the  air;  but  they  floated  away, 

And  their  ships  that  went  sailing  out  over  life's  sea, 

They  think  will  yet  anchor,  some  day. 

And  so  with  their  hopes,  and  their  castles,  and  work, 

Our  children  have  left  us  once  more; 

The  twilight  of  life  is  fast  deepening  for  us; 

Our  journey  will  shortly  be  o'er, 

And  our  children  will  miss  coming  back  to  the  home 

Where  the  days  of  their  childhood  were  passed; 

For  father,  and  mother,  and  home-coming  days 

Are  pleasures  not  always  to  last. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  185 

Tray  misses  them,  too;  mother,  see  how  he  looks 

So  eagerly  down  toward  the  gate; 

Ah,  wife!    I  wonder  which  one  will  be  called, 

And  the  other  left  sadly  to  wait, 

Until  we  join  hands,  and  our  hearts  beat  again, 

In  the  union  and  love  we've  known  here; 

If  we  both  could  together  step  over  the  tide, 

Death  would  not  be  lonely,  or  drear. 

How  silent  and  still  the  old  home  is  again, 

But  yesterday  rang  sweet  and  gay, 

Our  children's  dear  voices  in  laughter  and  song; 

But  wife,  they  have  left  us  today; 

We'll  try  not  to  fret,  for  the  children  you  know, 

Have  their  homes,  and  their  duties  and  cares; 

We'll  dream  of  the  days  when  our  children  were  babes, 

As  we  doze  in  our  fireside  chairs 

And  patiently  wait  for  the  summons  to  come, 

And  pray  that  together  we'll  go; 

Ah,  wife,  that  is  all  that  I  ask  now  of  God — 

He'll  answer  my  pleading,  I  know. 


Henry  Augustus  Van   Dalsem 

Biographical — Born,  New  York  City,  November  22,  1842. 
Father  was  a  prominent  physician.  Educated,  New  York  City 
schools.  In  early  manhood  went  to  Wisconsin.  Became  a 
Congregational  minister.  Abandoned  this  profession.  Came 
to  Dakota  in  1883.  Settled  in  Huron.  Edited  "The  Ruralist," 
the  People's  Party  organ — for  two  years.  In  1894,  married 
Mrs.  Dr.  Friede  Feige,  of  Huron.  Justice  of  the  Peace  for 
many  years.  Prominent  in  Masonic  circles.  Died  December 
1,  1913. 


JUDGE  H.  A.  VAN  DALSEM 

We  are  now  to  consider  the  most  prolific  writer 
of  both  prose  and  poetry  whom  the  state  has  as  yet 
developed — Judge  Henry  A.  Van  Dalsem,  of  Huron. 
For  range  of  vocabulary,  ease  of  expression,  en- 
nobling sentiments,  varied  and  complex  form,  and, 
above  all,  a  superabundance  of  literary  productions 
— both  prose  and  poetry — he  is  plainly  in  a  class 
all  by  himself;  in  fact,  he  is  simply  a  marvel,  a 
natural  born,  literary  genius. 

His  diction  is  of  an  exceptionally  high  order; 
his  English,  as  graceful  and  as  plastic  as  a  sylvan 
stream:  even  his  prose  is  possessed  of  a  charming 
melody. 

On  his  desk,  at  the  time  of  his  death,  he  left  two 
huge,  hand-written,  bound  volumes  of  delightful 
poems,  covering  a  range  of  subjects  that  seem  almost 
incredible  as  having  come  from  the  pen  of  one  man. 
In  addition  to  these,  his  desk  was  fairly  congested 
with  hit-or-miss  poems  of  various  lengths — each 
one  being  a  literary  jewel.  The  Judge  also  wrote  a 
complete  volume  of  thirty-four  gospel  songs  for  El 
Riad  Temple.  These  are  high  grade,  clever  produc- 
tions, never  excelled  in  Masonry. 

His  ablest  production  is  the  one  entitled  "My 
Soul,"  a  poem  in  six  cantos.  It  is  dedicated  to  his 
widow,  Dr.  Friede  Van  Dalsem,  and  is  a  scholarly 
treatise  on  the  human  soul.  In  addition  to  its 


188  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

prologue  and  epilogue,  the  poem  consists  of  174  four- 
line  stanzas.  In  rhythm  and  meter,  it  is  fashioned 
after  the  "Rubiyat."  The  following  stanzas  have 
been  selected  from  it  to  give  the  reader  a  general 
idea  of  its  style: 

CANTO  I— WHO  AM  I? 
I. 

Stand  forth  my  soul  and  tell  me  who  thou  art: 

The  sons  of  wisdom,  walking  far  apart, 

Each  only  proving  all  the  rest  untrue 

Know  not  the  spring  whence  all  thy  glories  start. 

II. 

Dark  they  pass  on,  discerners  of  no  sign 
That  writes  those  glories  all  and  only  mine, 
And  separates  thee  from  the  multitude 
Of  souls  o'er  whom  unending  mercies  shine. 

III.      , 

Somewhat  they  know,  perhaps,   the   Sage   and   Seer, 
Whom  other  sages  doubt  and  some  revere; 
To  weigh  the  earth  and  measure  sun  and  star 
Or  chain  the  elements  they  use — and  fear; 

IV. 

But  naught  of  thee  so  near  and  yet  so  far, 
The  deepest  of  all  mysteries  that  are; 
Linked  in  our  least  as  in  our  greatest  dreams 
Yet  evanescent  as  the  falling  star. 


CANTO  II— WHAT  AM  I? 

I. 

Fain  would  I  know  before  I  shall  depart 
Not  only  Who,  my  soul,  but  What  thou  art; 
Whose  secret  essence  all  my  search  evades 
Altho*   so   plainly  traced   upon   my  chart. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  .  189 

II. 

Who  shall  that  strange  relation  read  for  me 
Which  holds  between  my  flesh  and  blood  and  thee; 
So  close  that  none  may  tell  if  twain  or  one 
We  were  and  are  and  evermore  shall  be? 

III. 

Why  should  my  wasting  body  shrink  and  pine 
Because  of  some  catastrophe  of  thine? 
Or  wisdom's  ray  in  thy  fair  lamp  be  dimmed 
Through  some  inane  transgression  wholly  mine? 

IV. 

Why  should  thy  night  of  sorrow  or  despair 
Be  chiseled  in  my  face  and  bleach  my  hair? 
Or  my  disease  or  pain  or  woe  or  wrath 
Thy  reason  in  insane  delusion  snare? 


CANTO  III— WHENCE  AM  I? 
I. 

Oh  mystic  traveler  to   spheres   unseen 
By  paths  unknown,  where   shadows   intervene, 
Whence  comest  thou,  and  where  began  the  quest 
In  destiny's  wide  field  thy  sheaves  to  glean? 

II. 

No  new  creation  thou,  by  will  Divine 
Fused  in  the  birth  of  this  thy  mortal  shrine, 
And  handicapped  or  e'er  thy  race  began 
To  struggle  heavenward  by  paths  malign. 

III. 

Did  that  great  pow'r  that  reared  the  mountain  spars 
And  spangled  heaven  with  unnumbered  stars 
Evolve  all  races  from  a  single  type, 
And  with  God's  image  give  them  Adam's  scars? 

IV. 

Could  wisdom  infinite,  whose  word  unrolled 
A  perfect  universe  in  beauty  scrolled, 
With  falt'ring  functions  form  a  faulty  world 
And  choose  a  banished  rebel  for  the  mould? 


190  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

V. 

Did  then  thy  substance  in  its  fiery  thrall 
Slumber  while  earth  was  but  a  molten  ball, 
And  with  its  kindred  throng  the  cooling  sod 
When  beck'ning  nature  breathed  the  Master's  call? 


CANTO  IV— WHITHER  GO  1? 

I. 

If  long  before  the  Eden  era's  dawn 

In  vast  antiquity  thy  lines  were  drawn, 

Whose  evolution  still  must  bear  thee  on, 

Where  wilt  thou  dwell  when  all  the  world  is  gone? 

II. 

If  breathing,  man  became  a  living  soul 
Who  was  not  man  before,  how  reads  the  scroll 
When  breathless  he  returns  to  earth  again, 
Yielding  the  part  that  made  his  being  whole? 

III. 

Shall  he,  once  free,  his  forward  course  arrest 
And  yet  again  his  scattered  dust  invest; 
So  plundering  the  many  forms  of  life 
That  may  in  his  lost  elements  be  dressed? 


CANTO  V— WHY? 

I. 

Why  am  I  here?    Yea,  why  do  I  exist? 
A  segregated  cell  from  out  the  mist, 
Whose  fragile  tenure  of  contingent  life 
Snaps  like  a  reed  in  the  wind  atwist. 

II. 

Am  I,  because  God  is?     Who  not  obeys 
But  is  Himself  the  law  that  never  stays; 
Whose  life  conferring  essence  evermore 
In  countless  forms  the  breathing  world  arrays. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  191 

III. 

In  ancient  nature's  springtime,  long  ago, 
Behold  the  Sower  hied  him  forth  to  sow; 
And  ne'er  a  seed  from  out  his  fingers  fell 
But  somewhere,  somehow,  found  a  place  to  grow. 

IV. 

If  all  seeds  bloomed  then  were  this  world  of  ours 
Too  small  to  harbor  all  its  wealth  of  flow'rs; 
But  who  shall  tell  us  what  those  seeds  become 
Which  oversown  are  lost  in  Flora's  bow'rs. 

V. 

Life  ceases  not,  diverted  tho'  it  be: 
The  seed  which  in  the  earth  becomes  a  tree 
Dying  unsown,  imparts  its  vital  self 
However  from  its  blighted  hull  set  free. 

VI. 

The  germ  that  blossoms  on  the  pineclad  hills 
Is  kin  to  those  the  feeding  sparrow  kills; 
Nor  knowest  thou  in  all  thy  wisdom's  pride 
Which  one  of  these  the  highest  office  fills. 

VII. 

Nor  canst  thou  tell  if  life's  aborted  blooms 
Lose  all  their  beauty  in  these  transient  tombs; 
Or  if  by  nature's  occult  pow'r  transformed 
Each  seed  its  interrupted  grace  resumes. 

CANTO  VI— THE  SOUL'S  RESPONSE 
I. 

Musing,  I  slept,  and  in  my  dream  beheld 

A  lordly  man  of  reverential  eld, 

In  whose  clear  shining  eyes  I  seemed  to  see 

The  peace  that  cometh  after  storms  are  quelled. 

II. 

Now  wherefore  art  thou  exercised  to  know 
Thyself,  he  said,  and  whither  wilt  thou  go 
To  clear  the  problem  which  no  man  has  solved 
Nor  angel  ever  told  for  weal  or  woe? 


192  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

III. 

Since  thought  began,  the  world's  philosophers 
Have  chased  the  phantom  that  thy  being  stirs; 
Mystic  and  hermit,  sage  and  devotee, 
Have  lived  and  toiled  and  died  its  worshipers. 

IV. 

For  such  as  thou  what  vagrant  orators 
Have  traversed  wisdom's  widely  sundered  shores, 
And  braved  the  wrath  of  nature  and  of  man 
To  lead  thee  thro'  the  everlasting  doors. 

V. 

And  what  reward  had  they,  whose  lifelong  loss 
Should  prove  thy  gain?     Lo!  cherishing  its  dross 
The  rabid  world  impales  its  saintly  ones, 

And  hangs  its  saviors  on  Golgatha's  cross. 

***** 

XLVIII. 

Strong  in  the  trustful  faith  which  sees  no  doom 
From  which  the  buds  of  promise  may  not  bloom; 
That  looks  on  death  and  sees  the  life  beyond, 
Be  thou  a  star  of  hope  in  every  gloom. 

XLIX. 

So  shall  thy  lines  be  written  not  in  vain; 
So  shall  thy  feet  the  holy  highlands  gain; 
From  whose  broad  breast,  along  the  shining  way 
Thy  future  journey  shall  be  clear  and  plain. 

L. 

So  mote  it  be,  oh  heart  of  many  fates; 
Till,  glancing  backward  from  the  op'ning  gates, 
It  shall  be  shown  thee  how,  beside  its  graves, 
A  restless  age  the  new  Messiah  waits. 

(The  Epilogue.) 

Still  shall  the  thirsty  drink  from  truth's  pure  tide; 
To  whom  each  offered  cup,  tho'  sanctified, 
Too  much  its  taste  imparts  and  spoils  the  draft 
In  formless  freedom  to  the  free  supplied. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  193 

Nor  shall  the  wise  men  judge  him  and  condemn 

Who  finds  another  path  to  Bethlehem; 

To  his  own  master  shall  he  stand  or  fall, 

And  share  the  riches   of  His   grace  with  them. 


Only  a  few  of  his  shorter  poems  are  here 
reproduced  to  show  his  varied  styles  and  trend  of 
thought. 

THE  SOUL  OF  THE  SONG 

They  tell  of  the  song  that  the  angels  sang 
Over  Bethlehem,  storied  of  old; 
Whose  wonderful  measure  of  gladness  rang 
With  a  melody  never  yet  told. 

They  speak  of  the  musical  stars  of  morn, 
And  the  jubilant  harps  of  the  blest; 
Of  trumpets  whose  silvery  notes  are  born 
Of  the  joy  in  the   Seraphim's   breast. 

How  Heaven  must  ring  when  those  mighty  choirs 
To  the  throne  of  the  Holiest  throng! 
And  hearts  full  of  love  and  love's  desires 
Are  afloat  on  that  ocean  of  song! 

And  yet  if  I  stood  in  that  singing  sphere 
With  its  benison  sweeping  the  skies, 
My  lip  would  be  mute  till  my  love  drew  near 
With  the  light  of  my  soul  in  her  eyes. 


THE  CRITIC 

When   Pegasus  pranced  the   Olympian   road 
To  bear  to  the  earth  his  poetical  load, 
Minerva,   to  balance  his  welcome  below 
And  keep  her  own  temple  sufficiently  slow, 
Concluded  to  hamper  the  mettlesome  steed 
And  then  set  him  off  at  the  top  of  his  speed. 


194  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

So,  patting  his  shoulder,  she  whispered  and  smiled, 
Until  the  poor  fellow,  completely  beguiled, 
Believed  that  the  wit  of  all  ages  was  his 
And  arched  his  proud  neck  and  went  off  with  a  fizz; 
Not  knowing  that   she  who   had   fastened   his   mail 
Had  tied  a  balloon  to  his  beautiful  tail. 

The  gods  and  goddesses  all  in  a  rine 

Stood  watching  his  progress  by  hoof  and  by  wing; 

But  tho'  like  a  rocket  he  traversed  the  sky 

They  laughed  till  they  cried  and  expected  to  die, 

To  see  as  he  flourished  and  whinneyed  and  whined 

That  comical  guy  bobbing  gaily  behind. 

Then  down  to  the  temple  of  wisdom  and  wit 
Where  men  of  all  ages  and  tempers  and  grit 
Assemble  to  worship  Minerva,  the  great, 
(And  worship  themselves  when  the  lady  is  late), 
He  came  to  deliver  the  message  she  gave 
And  told  it  correctly  as  due  to  the  brave. 

But  never  a  hearer  could  tell  what  he  said; 

For  dark  as  a  pocket  each  dubious  head 

Was  bowed  to  consider  the  fluttering  bag 

That  danced  at  each  move  of  the  animate  nag, 

And   tho'   they   all    studied    the    thing   he   had   brought 

Not  one  upon  Pegasus  wasted  a  thought. 

And  so  it  is  now:  when  a  singer  would  sing 

In   Wisdom's   commission,  some  vacuous   thing 

Is  tied  to  the  crupper  his  Pegasus  wears 

To  deaden  the  world  to  the  message  he  bears, 

And  praise  with  the  praise  for  which  poets  have  pined 

The  mad  little  Critic  that  wabbles  behind. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  195 

THE  SHADOW  AND  THE  ROSE 

The  glow  of  the  stars  had  faded 

And  the  moon  was  passed  and  gone, 

As  I,  in  a  somber  valley, 

Watched  the  coming  of  the  dawn. 

Far  down  in  the  woodland  hollows 

Like  a  pall   the  darkness  fell, 
And  lay  like  a  veil  of  sorrow 

Over  hill  and  glade  and  dell. 

And  up  from  the  rolling  meadow 

As  a  rampart,  lone  and  high, 
A  mountain  rose  before  me 

Like  a  shadow  in  the  sky. 

And  there  with  a  saddened  spirit 

As  of  one  bereaved  I  stood, 
And  mourned  for  the  vanished  beaaty, 

And  the  charm  of  vale  and  wood. 

But  while  on  the  gloom  I  pondered 

Came  the  twilight,  soft  and  gray, 

And  routed  the  sleeping  shadows 
Till  they  rose  and  rolled  away. 

When  lo!  in  the  swelling  glory 

Of  the  swift,  oncoming  day, 
I  saw  that  a  robe  of  roses 

On  the  mountain's  bosom  lay! 

A  riot  of  roses,  tinted 

With   a   rainbow's   mingled   dyes, 
That  smiled  to  the  fond  caressings 

Of   the   close,   o'erbending   skies. 


196  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

And  so,  thought  I,  does  it  happen, 
In  this  heedless  life  of  ours, 

We  remember  only  shadows 

And  forget  the  hidden  flowers? 


How  often  our  narrow  vision 

To  the  looming  sorrow  clings, 

Though  joy  from  the  hills  is  coming 
On  the  morning's  lifted  wings. 


And  so,  in  your  life  forever, 

May  the  darkness  break  away; 

And  light  from  the  hills  of  beauty 
Cast   its   peace   revealing   ray. 


May  hope  through  your  future  singing, 
Hold  forever  to  your  eyes, 

The  roses  beneath  the  shadow, 

And  the  love  their  bloom  implies. 


DO  THEY  FORGET? 

When  from  the  bier,  beyond  the  dawn, 
The  friends  we  love  on  earth  are  gone, 
Do   they  forget  us   evermore 
As  dreams  that  fade  when   night  is   o'er? 

At  Heaven's  gate 

I'd  watch  and  wait 
Oh!   Sweetheart  so  tender  and  true; 

With  love  aflame 

Until  you  came, 
Still  watching  and  waiting  for  you! 


POETS  AND  POETRY  197 

Would  you,  if  you  were  called  away, 
Go  singing  through  the  gates  of  day, 
Unmindful   of  the   holy  vow 
That  binds  us  to  each  other  now? 

At  Heaven's  gate 

I'd  watch  and  wait 
Oh!   Sweetheart  so  tender  and  true; 

With  love  aflame 

Until    you    came, 
Still  watching  and  waiting  for  you! 

It  seems  to  me,  if  I  could  climb 
Beyond   the   cloudy  vale   of   time, 
I'd  think  of  you  and  gladly  wait, 
Although  I  stood  at  Heaven's  gate! 

At  Heaven's   gate 

I'd  watch  and  wait 
Oh!  Sweetheart  so  tender  and  true; 

With  love  aflame 

Until  you  came, 
Still  watching  and  waiting  for  you! 


When  death's  icy  chill  began  to  steal  over  him 
and  he  knew  that  the  end  was  near,  he  calmly  sat 
up  in  bed  and  deliberately  penned  to  his  faithful  wife 
his  "At  Last." 

AT  LAST 

Bride  of  my  sunset  hours,  in  whose  fond  eyes 
Brightened  the  love  that  lit  my  somber  skies; 
No  lyric  song,  tho'  fluent  as  the  sea, 
Can  ever  tell  what  thou  hast  been  to  me. 


198  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Let  warbling  birds  their  sweetest  carols  sing; 
Let  Nature's  harp  sound  every  string; 
Let  choral  voices  all  their  lore  unfold; 
The  story  of  thy  worth  still  runs  untold. 

Yet  somewhat  of  its  Love's  unmeasured  song 
My  soul  would  utter,  lest  thy  fancy  wrong 
The  golden  silence,  in  whose  keeping  dwells 
The  deeper  feeling  which  no  symbol  tells. 

Thou  art  more  dear  today  than  in  the  hour 
When  first  I  felt  thy  spirit's  power, 
And  faith,  forthstanding  in  her  temple  door, 
Summoned  the  love  I  thought  could  live  no  more. 

It  was  a  wondrous  hour  when  thy  dear  eyes, 
Deep  looking  into  mine,  bade  me  arise; 
And  seeing  all  my  clouds  were  silver  lined, 
I  found  the  joy  for  which  my  spirit  pined. 

Then  as  the  blind,  slow  groping  in  the  gloom 
Touched  by  the  healer's  hand  their  sight  assume, 
Forsake  th'  inquiring  staff  and  walk  firm  shod, 
My  falt'ring  feet  the  path  of  pleasure  trod. 


God  lead  thee,  sweetheart,  and  through  golden  days 
Bid  his  attending  angels  guard  thy  ways; 
And  for  the  comfort  thou  hast  given  me 
May  He  bestow  a  thousandfold  on  thee. 


But  we  must  not,  in  justice  to  Judge  Van 
Dalsem,  dismiss  his  works  without  reviewing  his 
prose  writings.  His  editorials  in  the  old  "Ruralist" 
are  charmingly  written,  but  inasmuch  as  they  deal 


POETS  AND  POETRY  199 

wholly  with  passing  themes,  they  will  not  be  em- 
bodied herein. 

He  wrote  the  ritual  for  "The  Home  Guardians," 
a  fraternal  insurance  organization,  when  it  was 
chartered;  and  the  members  of  that  order  declare 
there  is  nothing  finer  in  the  ritualistic  work  of  a 
single  lodge  in  all  Christendom. 

The  Judge  also  wrote  many  able  and  scholar- 
ly addresses  for  special  occasions  such  as  meetings 
of  the  Eastern  Star.  These  speeches  are  all  spirited 
and  learned,  and  they  show  that  he  was  equally  at 
home  in  prose  and  poetry. 

About  three  and  one-half  years  before  he  died, 
at  the  time  his  heart  first  began  to  bother  him  and 
when  it  was  thought  that  death  might  suddenly  en- 
sue, he  wrote  the  following  instructions  with  regard 
to  his  burial ;  sealed  them  up  and  gave  copies  of  them 
to  three  different  people — including  his  wife — with 
written  requests  on  the  envelopes  that  no  one  should 
open  them  until  after  he  had  died : 

MY  BURIAL 

The  prevailing  system  of  burial  being  false  in  import, 
foolish  in  form,  and  extravagant  in  display,  I  herein  and 
hereby  protest  against  its  observance  in  my  case  and  for 
me,  and  record  my  desire  as  follows: 

First — Let  not  my  body  be  embalmed  nor  in  any  man- 
ner prepared  for  exhibition.  Nature  having  spoken,  let  me 
return  to  the  dust  modestly,  unmutilated,  and  unmixed  with 
so-called  preservatives. 


200  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Second — Let  my  burial  be  private,  my  remains  being 
borne  from  my  home  to  the  grave,  followed  only  by  those 
who  know  and  love  me  enough  not  to  forget  me  when  I  am 
gone  from  view. 

Third — Let  no  costly  boquets  and  mounds  of  murdered 
flowers  be  sacrificed  to  do  me  hollow  honor.  In  life  I  have 
loved  the  flowers,  and  in  death  I  would  not  ravage  nor  de- 
stroy them.  Give  your  flower  money  to  the  poor  and  needy. 

Fourth — Let  no  so-called  "sermon"  be  preached  over  me. 
No  perfunctory  encomiums  nor  condolences  fit  either  them 
or  me  who  are  in  actual  interest.  No  pulpiteer  knows  them 
or  me,  nor  aught  of  the  world  and  condition  to  which  I  go, 
wherefore  his  conventional  ministerial  flatteries  must  be  as 
idle  in  death  as  they  have  always  been  distasteful  to  me  in 
life. 

Fifth — Let  no  one  wear  "mourning"  for  me.  Death  is 
not  a  calamity,  but  as  natural  as  life,  and  equally  a  part  of 
the  Divine  plan.  Pity  the  living,  not  the  dead,  who,  for  all 
we  know,  are  fuller  of  life  than  ever.  As  for  me,  since  God 
calls,  I  go,  believing  that  all  is  well;  therefore,  do  not  weep 
and  mourn,  but  trust  me  to  Him  whom  I  trust  with  all  that 
is  mine  either  here  or  hereafter.  Let  these  things  be  as 
I  have  said,  and  so  farewell,  and  God  be  with  you. 

H.  A.  Van  Dalsem. 


At  the  date  of  the  publication  of  this  book,  the 
Judge's  widow,  Dr.  Friede  Van  Dalsem,  of  Huron,  is  having 
a  large  volume  of  his  poems  published,  under  the  title, 
"Poems  of  the  Soul  and  Home." 


Rollin  J.  Wells 

Biographical — Born,  Moline,  Illinois,  June  24,  1848. 
Educated,  public  schools  of  Moline;  also  spent  two  years, 
literary  department,  University  of  Michigan.  Taught  school, 
Illinois.  Married  Susan  L.  Little,  1870.  Father  of  five 
children.  Read  law  in  offices  of  Judge  George  E.  Waite, 
Geneseo,  Illinois.  Admitted,  Illinois  bar,  1878.  Came  to 
Dakota.  Settled  at  Sioux  Falls.  Entered  promptly  upon  the 
practice  of  law.  In  1881,  formed  partnership  with  William  A. 
Wilkes.  Admitted  to  practice  in  the  U.  S.  supreme  court, 
1887.  Dissolved  partnership  with  Wilkes,  1890,  and  formed 
a  new  association  with  George  T.  Blackman  which  continues 
to  this  date  (1916). 


ROLLIN  J.  WELLS 

"Pleasure  And  Pain"  is  the  title  of  a  volume  of 
sixty-two  poems,  from  the  pen  of  Rollin  J.  Wells,  of 
Sioux  Falls,  placed  upon  the  market  for  the  holiday 
trade  in  1914.  Taken  all  in  all  it  is  one  of  the  most 
substantial  volumes  of  poems  from  the  pen  of  a 
single  author  that  has  appeared  thus  far  in  the  state. 

Wells'  poems  appeal  to  old  and  young  alike,  be- 
cause of  their  plasticity,  their  perfect  rhythm,  their 
music,  the  ideal  selection  of  words  in  them,  their 
charming  originality,  and  the  still  greater  fact  that 
in  each  of  them  is  a  deep  sympathy  which  touches 
the  heart  strings  of  all  humanity. 

The  first  poem  in  "Pleasure  and  Pain"  is  given 
the  same  title  as  the  book  itself.  It  follows  in  full : 

PLEASURE  AND  PAIN 

Yes,  Pleasure  and  Pain  are  a  tandem  team, 

Abroad  in  all  kinds  of  weather, 
And  whether  you  know  it  or  not,  my  lad, 

They  are  always  yoked  together. 

The  first  has  a  coat  of  silken  sheen, 

With  mane  like  the  moonbeams  streaming, 

And  a  tail  like  the  fleecy  clouds  at  night 
When  the  winds  and  waves  are  dreaming. 

And  he  moves  like  a  barque  o'er  the  sapphire  seas, 

As  his  feet  the  earth  are  spurning, 
And  his  breath  is  blown  through  his  nostrils  wide, 

And  his  eyes  like  stars  are  burning. 


204  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Ah,  gaily  he  rides  who  bestrides  this  steed, 
And  flies  o'er  the  earth  with  laughter, 

But  whether  you  know  it  or  not,  my  lad, 
There's  a  dark  steed  coming  after. 

For,  hard  behind  with  a  tireless  pace 
Comes    Pain   like   a   wivern,   faster, 

And  whether  you  know  it  or  not,  my  lad. 
You  must  mount  on  him  thereafter. 

His  nostrils  are  bursting  with  smoke  and  flame 
From  the  fires  that  within  are  burning, 

And  whether  you  rue  it  or  not,  my  lad, 
There  is  no  hope  of  returning. 

Each  hair  on  his  sides  is  a  bristling  spear 
That  is  poisoned  with  lost  desires, 

That  rankles  and  burns  in  your  quivering  flesh 
That  is  seared  by  the  fiendish  fires. 

And  whether  you  know  it  or  not,  my  lad, 
You  may  never  dismount  from   Pain 

Till  for  every  mile  you  rode  the  first 
You  have  ridden  the  latter  twain. 


One  of  the  best  poems  in  the  book  is  entitled 
"Growing  Old."  The  first  one  only  of  its  five  eight- 
line  stanzas  is  herein  reproduced : 

A  little  more  tired  at  the  close  of  day, 
A  little  less  anxious  to  have  our  way; 
A  little  less  ready  to  scold  and  blame, 
A  little  more  care  for  a  brother's  name; 
And  so  we  are  nearing  the  journey's  end, 
Where  Time  and  Eternity  meet  and  blend. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  205 

Wells'  poems  are  so  perfectly  wrought  that 
they  adapt  themselves  admirably  to  music.  This  is 
especially  true  of  "Hagar's  Lament"  and  of  "My 
Pilot."  The  latter  poem  has  been  set  to  good  music 
and  is  for  sale  at  all  music  stores.  It  has  also  been 
embodied  in  a  standard  hymnal. 

MY  PILOT 

Why  should  I  wait  for  evening  star, — 
Why  should  I  wait  to  cross  the  bar, 
And  Death's  dissolving  hand  to  trace 
The  outlines  of  my  Pilot's  face? 

Must  my  frail  barque  be  driven  and  tossed 
By  winds  and  waves — be  wrecked  and  lost 
Upon  life's  strange  and  storm-swept  sea 
Because  my  Pilot's  far  from  me? 

No,  not  alone  my  way  I  trace, 

Each  wave  gives  back  my  Pilot's  face; 

To  every  sin  and  fear  and  ill, 

To  every  storm  he  says,  "Be  still!" 

I  need  no  longer  vex  my  soul 

With  longings  for  that  distant  goal: 

My  Pilot  sitteth  at  the  prow, 

And  Heaven's  within,  and  here,  and  now. 


A  clever  sketch  of  his  is  one  entitled  "Grand- 
pa." It  is  a  fitting  companion  piece  to  Burleigh's 
"Grandma"  ("Dakota  Rhymes").  Speaking  of  the 
children 

"As  lively  and  cute  as  fleas," 

Grandpa  is  made  to  exclaim : 


206  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

The  racket  they  raise  is  beyond  belief, 
As  they  charge  around  my  chair, 

Pretending  that  I  am  an  Indian  chief 
Or  perhaps  a  polar  bear. 


The  poet's  "Little  Old  High  Chair"  reminds  one 
of  its  sister  poem  by  Daisy  Dean-Carr,  entitled 
"Treasures."  In  it  Wells  says  in  part  : 

Alone  in  the  attic,  it  stands,  so  queer, 

All  covered  with  dust  of  many  a  year, 

And  it  bears  the  marks  of  many  a  blow, 

That  was  given  it  years  and  years  ago; 

But  the  little  hands  that  grasped  the  spoon, 

And  beat  upon  it  life's  opening  tune, 

Have  gone  with  the  years- that  have  come  since  then, 

For  some  are  women  and  some  are  men; 

And  the  chair  is  forgotten  by  all,  save  me, 

But  I  climb  the  stairs  full  oft  to  see 

The  children  gathered  to  me  again, 

No  longer  women — no  longer  men. 


While  his  poems  are  all  high  grade,  yet  those, 
in  addition  to  the  ones  previously  mentioned,  in 
which  the  deener  coloring  and  finer  shades  of  svm- 
pathy  may  be  found,  are :  "The  Two  Captains,"  "The 
Husband's  Confession,"  "A  Lonesome  Place,"  and 
"A  Dream." 

Unlike  other  books  of  poems,  this  one  has  a 
preface  and  a  conclusion  ("Benedicite")  that  are 
both  written  in  poetry.  In  the  preface  the  author 
says: 

If  you  should  scan  this  title  page, 
And  throw  the  book  down  in  a  rage, 
I'd  not  be  disappointed. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  207 

If  you  should  skim  the  volume  through, 
And  swear  it  was  not  worth  a  sou, 
I'd  not  be  disappointed. 

If  you  should  find  some  little  thing 
That  in  your  heart  would  wake  and  sing, 
I'd  not  be  disappointed. 

And  if  your  cares  were  sung  away, 
And  you  were  stronger  for  the  day, 
I'd  not  be  disappointed. 

If  you  should  say  about  this  book, 

"The  world  will  pause  and  read  and  look," 

I  would  be  disappointed. 


And  then,  in  concluding  the  volume,  he  says 

To  all  who  have  heard  the  music, 
That  comes  in  the  quiet  hour, 
And  brings  to  the  soul  in  waiting, 
A   message   of   light  and   power — 
As  a  breath  from  the  fragrant  forest 
Is  borne  o'er  the  tropic  sea — 
I  offer  this  little  garland 
That  has  blossomed  in  spite  of  me. 


Among  Wells'  hit-or-miss  poems  which  have 
appeared  in  various  forms  is  a  recent  one  entitled 
'The  Biography  of  a  Common  Man."  It  is  an 
original,  tasty  piece  of  wit,  given  below  in  full : 


208  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

THE  BIOGRAPHY  OF  A  COMMON  MAN 

WAS  BORN 

How  fecund  every  rising  morn, 
Wherein  a  million  souls  are  born! 
Lo,  each  can  brand  it  with  his  name, 
And  all  the  rest  may  do  the  same. 

WAS   WEIGHED 

Let  every  man  esteem  himself  for  all  he  ought 
Else  he  will  be  found  wanting  and  weigh — O. 

WAS  DRESSED 

From  Adam  down,  clothes  are  the  foil,  forsooth, 
To  magnify  our  rank,  and  hide  the  naked  truth. 

AND  KISSED 

The  kisses  of  lovers  are  luscious  and  blest, 

But  the  kiss  of  the  mother  is  sweetest  and  best. 

MARRIED 

Oh,  wedding  bells,  and  flowers  and  cakes! 
How  many  vowers'  vows  are  fakes! 
But  when  true  hearts  have  sealed  their  choice 
Both  Heaven  and  Earth  must  needs  rejoice. 

DIED 

Here  is  the  place  where  pretense  ends, 
And  after  death  we  all  are  friends. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  209 

HAGAR 

In  the  broad  range  of  literary  endeavor  that  has 
characterized  the  writings  of  our  state,  there  seems 
to  have  been  room  for  all ;  and  the  manner  in  which 
each  of  the  leaders  seems  intuitively  to  have  selected 
and  developed  a  field  of  his  or  her  own,  is  rather 
remarkable.  It  remained,  however,  for  Rollin  J. 
Wells  to  make  an  excursion  into  the  field  of  drama, 
and  therein  to  make  for  himself  in  his  "Hagar"  a 
reputation  as  a  poetic  dramatist  that  will,  in  all 
probability,  give  to  him  the  domination  of  this  field 
of  literary  thought  in  the  state  for  some  time  to 
come. 

Hagar  is  a  dramatic  poem  in  three  acts,  il- 
lustrated throughout  in  two  colors  by  the  artist 
Hudson.  It  is  founded  upon  the  biblical  narrative 
of  Sarah's  handmaid.  Every  sentence  in  it  is  meas- 
ured with  the  mind  of  a  master  builder ;  every  word 
is  set  in  each  sentence  like  a  glistening  diamond  in 
a  studded  gem :  it  is  simply  a  perfect  piece  of  pure 
and  undefiled  English.  To  lovers  of  classic  litera- 
ture, to  admirers  of  the  faultless  use  of  the  Mother 
Tongue,  nothing  could  be  more  satisfying  than 
Hagar.  It  is  one  of  the  most  polished  productions, 
from  a  literary  standpoint,  in  South  Dakota  litera- 
ture. 

In  it  Wells  very  tastefully  introduces  for  Hagar 
,a  gallant  young  lover,  named  Athuriel.  Her  father, 


210  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Abner,  is  made  responsible  for  her  downfall.  He 
sells  her  virtue  to  Abraham  for  half  of  his  flocks  and 
gold.  Hagar  exclaims : 

"I'm  not 

Unmindful,  nor  ungrateful,  but  my  blood 
Cannot  be  coined  in  gold.    In  all  things  else 
I  will  obey,  but  not  in  this.    My  soul 
Abhors  the  loathsome  thought." 

ABNER. 
"Tis  my  command.     Obey!" 

She  sobs  herself  to  sleep.  Then  Athuriel,  as 
the  dawn  approaches,  comes  near  her  and  solilo- 
quizes : 

"Asleep  amid  the  flowers  where  angels  flit 

And  waft  sweet  dreams,  as  odors,  from  their  wings. 

The  benediction  of  the  skies  must  rest 

Upon  this  scene,  and  earth  smile  back  to  heaven. 

0,  let  me  be  a  portion  of  thy  dream! 

(He  draws  nearer.) 

Awake,  my  love!     The  Shepherd  of  the  night 
Leads  to  the  fold  the  waning  stars,  and  day, 
With  rising  splendor,  floods  the  hills. 
Come  while  the  shadow  rests  upon  the  flower, 
Pensive  with  dewy  tears." 

Hagar,  conscience  stricken  and  jaded,  is  made 
to  reply : 

"My  heart  awoke 

Before  the  young  winds  breathed  into  my  ear 
Your  prayer;  but,  with  a  fainting  hope,  for  life 
Has  lost  its  sweetness." 


POETS  AND  POETRY  211 

ATHURIEL: 

"Speak  not  so,  my  love. 
What  evil  wind  now  wakes,  robbing  my  rose 
Of  its  sweet-scented  dew?" 

HAGAR: 

"Plucked  by  rude  hands, 
Its  fragrance  ravished  by  a  ruder  breath." 

After  an  extended,  dramatic  conversation  with 
her,  Athuriel  shouts: 

"The  law! 
'Tis  lust  that  lays  its  leprous  hands  on  you." 

Hagar  looks  up  at  him  with  intense  longing  and 
confession  in  her  eyes  and  says : 

"My  father's  will.    From  it  I  cannot  fly. 
Come,  fly  with  me  to  death!" 

Presently,  Abner — Hagar's  father — enters  upon 
the  scene  and  commands, 

"Seducer,  fly!" 

His  daughter's  impassioned  young  lover  faces 
Abner  with  a  defiant  air  and  upbraids  him  as 
follows : 

"Betrayer  of  a  father's  trust!  seeking 

To  sell  her  soul  to  loathsome  lust  for  gold! 

How  dare  you  look  her  in  the  face  and  live?" 

In  Act  II,  Sarah — Abraham's  legitimate  wife — 
and  Hagar  are  having  a  heated  debate  over  her 
shame,  when  Abraham,  himself,  comes  into  her  tent 
and  reasons  with  them: 


212  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

"Why  wrangle  so?    At  home  all  should  be  peace. 
The  world  is  hard;  strife  rules  the  mart, 
But  when  we  cross  the  threshold  of  our  homes 
We  lay  this  by  and  long  for  rest." 

Sarah  engages  him  in  conversation.  To  her  he 
replies : 

"Desist,  desist! 
The  wilderness  were  better  than  this  strife." 

Finally,  he  yields  to  Sarah's  entreaties  and  says 
with  regard  to  Hagar 

"I'll  send  the  scape-goat  hence." 

Whereupon  they  withdraw  and  leave  Hagar 
bending  over  her  illegitimate  child.  She  sobs : 

"A  slave!  Thrust  from  my  arms,  despised,  despoiled! 

Was  my  heart  ravished  of  its  love  for  this? 

Look  not  trustingly  into  my  eyes, 

My  Ishmael,  or  you  will  read  my  sins. 

A  slave!  My  God,  can  this  be  my  reward? 

Have  I  not  followed  faith,  betrayed  my  heart? 

Debased  my  life  and  lost  my  soul?     Take  him, 

My  little  lamb,  into  Thy  tender  arms! 

Let  not  my  sins  fall  on  his  head.     Lead  him, 

If  need  be,  in  the  wilderness,  where  its 

Inhospitable  wastes  allow  no  slaves." 

Sarah  returns,  accompanied  by  the  priest. 
After  a  running  debate  among  them,  Abraham  comes 
up  with  his  guards  and  pointing  to  Hagar  and  her 
helpless  child,  exclaims, 

"Away!" 


POETS  AND  POETRY  213 

Hagar  looks  back  imploringly,  as  she  is  driven 
out,  and  says: 

"Pity  must  linger  in  some  heart  for  me;" 

whereupon,  one  of  the  soldiers,  pitying  the  fate  of 
the  child,  says : 

"Death  in  the  desert 
Waits  for  him.     Give  him  to  me." 

Hagar  becomes  frantic  and  in  her  mother 
agony,  declares: 

"My  child!  my  child!  Give  him 
Away?     No,  let  his  icy  fingers  clasp 
My  neck  in  death!" 

Abraham  commands: 

"Alarm  the  drums; 
Drive  forth  the  evil  one!" 

The  soldiers,  at  the  points  of  their  bayonets, 
then  drive  her  away. 

Scene  III  of  this  same  Act,  portrays  Hagar 
alone  in  the  wilderness,  during  that  awful  night  so 
dramatically  pictured  in  the  Bible.  She  lays  her 
parching  child  on  some  dead  leaves  and  then  walks 
away  where  she  cannot  see  the  anguish  on  his  face 
while  he  dies  of  thirst. 

Here  Wells  very  artistically  brings  up 
Athuriel  who  has  been  searching  for  his  lover,  and 
causes  him  to  listen  to  Hagar's  words: 

"Hush,  darling,  for  the  day  is  dead  and  night 
Creeps  from  its  lonely  lair.     Sleep  in  my  arms, 


214  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

For  God  may  wake  us  to  another  day. 

A  drink?     Would  that  my  tears  might  quench  your  thirst! 

But  dream  of  fountains  gushing  from  the  hills, 

Of  bright  dews  flashing  from  the  angels'  wings, 

Which  hover  near  and  guard  our  sleep.     Asleep! 

Oh!  God,  with  bitter  anguish  would  I  cry, 

But  hungry  beasts  awake  at  fall  of  night, 

With  fierce  complainings  as  they  sniff  the  wind, 

Encroaching  as  the  tides  some  sea-girt  isle. 

Into  Thy  hands  I  now  commit  my  child! 

His  innocence  must  plead  with  Thee.     Let  not 

My  sins  cut  off  his  days!     He  died  of  thirst! 

Look,  Lord,  into  his  little  face  so  sweet, 

So  innocent,  yet  traced  with  pain  in  sleep! 

Take  him  into  Thine  everlasting  arms! 

My  blood  shall  quench  the  lions'  thirst — hush! — " 

Then  Hagar  chants  softly: 
"Breathe,  softly,  my  baby,  and  do  not  cry, 
Though  darkness  and  danger  are  drawing  nigh; 
Alone  in  the  forest  where  none  can  hear, 
But  God  and  the  angels,  my  baby  dear. 

The  cool  winds  are  wet  with  the  silver  dew, 
That  angels  will  gather  the  whole  night  through, 
And  bring  in  the  lily  when  morn  is  near, 
For  God  is  still  good  to  us,  baby  dear. 

Start  not  at  the  sound  of  each  stealthy  tread, 
The  stars  are  still  watching  just  overhead; 
This  earth  may  be  cruel,  but  heaven  is  near, 
And  God  will  be  good  to  us,  baby  dear. 

Then  wake  not,  my  darling,  from  rest  to  pain, 
But  pillow  your  head  on  my  bosom  again. 
'Twas  only  the  bittern's  boom  over  the  mere, 
And  God  will  protect  us,  my  baby  dear. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  215 

The  wild  beasts  are  lurking  around  our  way, 
Yet  man  is  more  cruel,  my  dear,  than  they, 
Hush!  hush!  'Tis  the  panther's  cry,  Oh,  so  near! 
But  God  is  more  close  to  us,  baby  dear." 

While  this  scene  is  being  enacted,  Athuriel, 
whose  approach  had  been  undetected  by  Hagar,  slips 
away  quietly  and  gets  a  cruse  of  water  which  he 
brings  back,  steals  up  softy  and  sets  it  near  Hagar. 
Presently  the  moon  comes  up.  The  agonizing  mother 
sees  the  pitcher  of  water.  She  rushes  to  it;  seizes 
the  vessel  and  gives  the  feverish  baby  a  drink.  The 
little  fellow  refuses  to  release  the  pitcher  and  keeps 
on  drinking.  Hagar  says  to  him : 

"Wait,  darling,  for  awhile,  then  drink  again; 
Rest  on  this  bed  of  leaves  and  dream  of  Heaven, 
For  God  has  sent  his  angel  unto  us, 
Bringing  this  cruse  of  water  and  has  shut 
The  mouths  of  hungry  lions  while  we  sleep. 

(Ishmael  falls  to   sleep  again.) 
This  is  an  awful  place  where  God  descand-3, 
And  walks  in  darkness  through  these  mighty  woods. 
Each  flower  may  peer  into  His  face  and  fill 
Its  cup.    Why  should  I  fear?    Has  He  not  led 
Me  safely  through  the  night?    For  now  the  dawn 
Lifts  the  dim  curtains  of  these  leafy  aisles, 
And  cowering  beasts  slink  to  their  gloomy  caves." 

After  this  tragic  night  in  the  wilderness, 
Athuriel  takes  Hagar ;  sets  up  a  kingdom  of  his  own ; 
crowns  her  as  queen.  Abraham  seeks  to  overthrow 
him.  A  bloody  battle  ensues.  AthurieFs  forces  win 
a  decisive  victory.  Isaac — Abraham  and  Sarah's 


216  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

legitimate  son — is  captured  by  Athuriel's  army  and 
held  as  a  hostage  of  war.  Finally,  Abraham,  old 
and  broken  in  health,  with  his  eyes  bedimmed,  makes 
his  way  to  Athuriel's  headquarters,  and  after  gain- 
ing admission,  pleads  as  follows: 

"I  rest  upon  your  word;  give  me  my  son." 

After  a  penitential  rehearsal  before  Athuriel, 
Abraham  again  implores : 

"A  brave  man  never  wrongs  the  innocent. 
With  empty  hands  and  yearning  heart  I  come. 
If  ransom  you  require,  all  that  I  have 
Is  thine.     Give -me,  I  pray,  my  living  son!" 

Athuriel  commands  him  to  deal  with  the  queen. 
Abraham  turns  to  her,  but  his  eyes  are  too  dimmed 
with  age  to  detect  her  identification.  He  pleads: 

"Oh,  Queen! 

I  pray  the  sorrows  of  a  poor  old  man 
May  touch  the  tendrils  of  a  mother's  heart, 
That  twine  so  lovingly  around  your  son, 
And  wring  from  their  chaste  lips,  sweet  sympathy 
That  makes  the  whole  race  kin.     Let  me  draw  near, 
For  my  dim  eyes  would  read  in  your  face, 
Mercy  and  hope.     (He  steps  forward  and  peers  in  her 

face,  then  turns  and  exclaims):  'Tis  Hagar!  I  am  lost!" 

As  Isaac  steps  forward  from  behind  the  flap 
of  the  tent,  Hagar  says  to  Abraham, 

"Behold  your  son!" 


POETS  AND  POETRY  217 

Abraham  embraces  him,  and  then  turning  to 
Hagar,  in  penitence  and  remorse,  he  asks : 

"Hagar,  can  you  forgive 
A  broken  and  a  contrite  man?" 

Pity  seizes  Hagar,  and  as  her  heart  wells  up 
with  sympathy,  she  replies: 

"Yes;  go! 

Not  as  a  wanderer  unto  the  waste, 
Naked  and  scourged  by  evil  tongues  of  hate, 
But  to  your  home  in  peace." 

Although  the  author,  as  will  be  seen  by  com- 
parison, departed  somewhat  from  the  biblical  nar- 
rative, yet  nowhere  did  he  weaken  it ;  rather,  at  each 
angle,  he  strengthened  it.  It  is  a  masterpiece,  has 
been  staged,  and  takes  rank  with  some  of  the  best 
selections  in  our  national  literature. 


Gustav  G.  Wenzlaff 

Biographical — Born,  Germany,  1865.  Acquired  early 
education  of  his  father  who  was  a  successful  German  teacher. 
Came  to  America  when  a  boy.  Settled  in  South  Dakota.  Was 
graduated  from  the  Yankton  high  school  in  1884;  from  Yank- 
ton  College  in  1888.  Studied  in  Chicago  1888-89.  Instructor 
in  Yankton  College  1889-92.  Student,  Berlin  University  and 
University  of  Leipzig,  Germany,  1892.  Professor  of  Philos- 
ophy and  German,  Yankton  College,  1893-97.  Student, 
University  of  Chicago,  1897-98.  Recuperating  in  California 
1899-1900.  Superintendent  of  Yankton  county  schools,  1905- 
1908.  President  Springfield  Normal  1908  to  date  (1916). 
Granted  his  LL.  D.  degree  by  Yankton  College,  1911. 


GUSTAV  G.  WENZLAFF 

Here  again  is  another  writer  who  cannot  be 
classified  either  as  a  prose  writer  or  as  a  poet,  for 
he  excels  as  both.  Dr.  WenzlafFs  prose  composi- 
tions are  scholarly  models;  and  yet,  peculiarly 
enough,  he  seems  equally  strong  on  his  poetic  side. 
He  speaks  and  writes  two  languages  and  reads 
several  more. 

WenzlafFs  prose  productions  cover  two  books 
and  a  number  of  varied  sketches.  His  best  prose 
work  is  his  "Mental  Man/'  a  psychology  that  is  now 
used  in  many  of  the  best  colleges  and  normal  schools 
of  the  country.  It  is  characterized  by  two  things: 
first,  its  short,  crisp  sentences  which  make  it  easy 
reading;  second,  its  wealth  of  original  physical  il- 
lustration. His  second  book  is  a  small  volume  of 
"Sketches  and  Legends  of  the  West."  These  stories 
cover  a  wide  range  of  thought  and  style  and  they 
are  tersely  phrased. 

His  prose  style  is  charmingly  revealed  in  the 
following  sketch  given  in  full : 

OLD  BON  HOMME 

It  was  a  fall  day.  No  frost  had  yet  blighted  the  vege- 
tation, but  already  the  yellow  corn  showed  through  the  wilt- 
ing husks.  A  longing  to  get  away  from  the  humdrum  of 
routine  work  and  to  dream  a  day-dream  took  us  out  toward 
old  Bon  Homme  on  the  Missouri. 

Eight  miles  to  the  east  of  the  dingy  stor.e  walls  of  the 


220  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Springfield  Normal  we  look  down  upon  a  fair  plain  dotted 
with  farm  buildings  in  the  midst  of  clustering  trees.  To 
the  east  a  white  church  spire  catches  our  eye,  and  farther  to 
the  south  a  group  of  buildings  rather  too  large  to  be  a 
collection  of  farm  buildings.  A  little  cemetery,  well  kept 
after  a  fashion,  enclosed  by  a  weather-beaten  fence,  over- 
looks the  Bon  Homme  valley  and  the  wide  stretches  of  the 
wild  Missouri.  Granite  blocks  and  marble  shafts  rise  above 
the  stubble  of  the  prairie  grass.  Yes,  we  read  some  of  the 
inscribed  names  and  remember  those  who  years  ago  re- 
sponded to  them. 

A  well  traveled  road  leads  to  where  years  ago  stood  the 
fair  little  town  of  Bon  Homme.  At  one  place  a  few  build- 
ings are  on  either  side  of  the  road,  once  a  street  of  the  town, 
and  a  little  farther  on  the  little  white  schoolhouse,  once 
the  village  school,  the  successor  of  the  first  schoolhouse  in 
Dakota  Territory.  I  have  seen  some  of  the  pupils  that  were 
gathered  in  that  first  schoolhouse  in  Dakota — not  as  ruddy- 
faced  youngsters,  but  as  serious  men  and  women  past  middle 
life. 

I  tried  to  point  out  to  my  companion  the  site  of  the  old 
county  courthouse,  that  had  been  here,  and  other  familiar 
landmarks. 

By  the  road — or  should  I  say,  on  one  side  of  the  street — 
a  man  was  unloading  some  hay  in  the  wind.  I  pulled  in  the 
reins. 

I  had  met  the  man  before,  and  he  reminded  me  of  it.  I 
asked  him  where  the  courthouse  had  stood,  and  the  jail, 
which  years  ago  had  impressed  my  youthful  mind. 

''You'd  better  ask  the  old  man  over  there,"  was  his  ad- 
vice. "He  can  tell  you  better." 

Just  then  the  old  man  came  out  of  the  house  and  stood 
by  the  little  gate,  that  once  opened  upon  a  busy  street. 

We  drove  up.  After  mutual  salutations  I  told  the  man 
that  I  used  to  be  acquainted  with  the  location  of  things 
here  and  with  some  people,  too.  At  present,  however,  I 


POETS  AND  POETRY  221 

could  not  locate  anything.     Where  did  the  courthouse  stand? 

"Over  there."     He  pointed  out  the  spot. 

"And  the  jail?" 

"It  was  this  side  of  it.""* 

"The  hotel  burned  down,  didn't  it?" 

"Yes,  some  years  ago." 

I  inquired  after  several  other  old  landmarks  that  had 
been,  and  I  received  the  same  brief  replies.  Now  I  began 
to  look  more  closely  at  the  old  house  before  which  we  were 
halting. 

I  observed  the  attempts  that  apparently  had  been  made 
at  flower-gardening  on  a  small  scale  in  the  front  yard. 
I  now  also  noticed  more  definitely  that  the  old  man  was  really 
not  young  any  more. 

"My  name  is  W ,"  continued  I,  "and  this  is  my 

friend,  Mr.  G ." 

"My  name  is  Clark,"  he  replied. 

"I  suppose  that  you  have  lived  here  a  long  time?"  I 
queried,  taking  in  some  more  details. 

"I'm  the  oldest  settler  here,"  he  answered. 

"Are  any  others  here  that  came  to  Bon  Homme  about 
the  time  you  did?" 

"I  am  the  last  one." 

I  wished  that  I  knew  what  stream  of  reminiscences 
coursed  through  his  mind,  and  what  emotions  stirred  his 
breast.  He  seemed  entirely  unmoved.  I  knew,  however, 
that  to  be  the  oldest  settler  in  old  Bon  Homme  meant  much, 
for  was  not  young  Bon  Homme  once  hopeful,  ambitious,  and 
aspiring  for  great  things — it  is  history  that  she  came  near 
becoming  the  capital  of  Dakota  Territory!  I  wished  that  the 
oldest  settler  of  old  Bon  Homme  might  "unbutton"  a  little 
and  talk — talk  freely.  But  he  said  nothing. 

"Doubtless  your  children  are  living  in  this  neighbor- 
hood?" I  continued. 

"I  have  no  children." 


LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

"Oh,  then  just  you  and  your  wife  are  living  here  in  the 

old  home?" 

"I  am  all  alone.     My  wife  died  eight  years  ago." 

I  then  thought  again  of  the  little  cemetery  on  the  hill. 

Something    like    a    consciousness    of    Gray's    "Elegy"    and 

Goldsmith's    "Deserted    Village"    and    several    other    things 

came  into  my  mind. 

A  little  later  we  were  passing  through  a  long  driveway 
arched  over  by  tall,  stately  cottonwoods,  planted  there  by 
the  old  gardener  of  the  Huttrische  Bruder  Gemeinde—  the 
Society  of  the  Brothers  of  Huter.  Since  he  who  planted 
and  watered  these  trees  is  sleeping  the  long  sleep  in  the 
Society's  sacred  acre,  they  do  not  show  the  same  painstaking 
care,  for  the  new  gardener  knows  not  what  pains  and  labors 
and  hopes  have  gone  into  the  sturdy  trunks  and  leafy 
branches. 

To  the  left  the  orchard  rises  up  to  a  higher  table-land, 
on  which  stand  the  plain,  long,  substantial  chalkstone  build- 
ings. The  one  most  visible  through  the  orchard  from  the 
road  below,  was  built  many  years  ago  by  Dr.  A.  W.  Burleigh. 
The  Doctor  was  one  of  the  most  brilliant  gentlemen  that 
ever  came  to  Dakota  Territory.  Trained  in  the  best  schools 
of  the  east,  a  skillful  physician,  then  an  able  lawyer,  politi- 
cian, and  forceful  orator.  At  one  time,  in  the  sixties,  he 
represented  the  Territory  in  Washington,  where  he  enjoyed 
the  personal  friendship  of  Secretary  Seward  and  President 
Lincoln,  the  latter  of  whom  he  much  resembled  in  appearance. 
Dr.  Burleigh  brought  his  good  wife  and  sons  to  this  beautiful 
spot,  planted  an  orchard  and  vineyard,  set  out  the  shade  tree, 
built  a  commodious  mansion,  and  filled  it  with  the  comforts 
and  refinements  of  America's  highest  culture.  This  place 
with  its  broad  acres  he  sold  to  the  present  occupants.  What 
a  contrast! 

To  one  who  does  not  understand,  the  Brotherhood  has 
little  charm.  The  simple  souls  here  live  a  communistic  life 
in  the  manner,  as  they  suppose,  of  the  early  Christians. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  223 

They  believe  in  the  simple  life  with  all  their  heart.  All 
finer  touches  are  strictly  against  their  tenets,  being  re- 
garded as  worldliness.  They  preach  and  practice  non- 
resistance.  Christ  came  with  a  message  of  peace,  and  his 
true  followers  will  not  resort  to  force  of  any  kind.  War  and 
litigation  are  of  the  Work  of  Darkness.  To  take  thought  of 
dress  and  house  is  sinful  vanity.  Our  true  estate  is  the 
spiritual  world;  that  is,  the  inheritance  of  those  who  walk  in 
humility,  peace,  and  simplicity.  This  is  the  dominating  mo- 
tive of  these  simple  souls,  whom  outsiders  usually  judge  as 
unprogressive  and  uncouth. 

These  idealists  (for  such  they  are)  are  often  referred  to 
by  the  uninformed  as  "Rooshions."  Why  these  plain  folks 
holding  so  tenaciously  to  their  faith,  language,  and  tradi- 
tions should  be  dubbed  Russians  is  hard  to  understand. 
There  is  not  a  drop  of  Slavic  blood  in  their  veins.  The 
founder  of  the  sect  was  a  German.  They  speak  nothing  but 
German — a  German  dialect  spoken  several  hundred  years 
ago — and  they  cling  to  that  almost  as  tenaciously  as  to  their 
ideas  of  the  religion  of  Christ. 

As  we  drive  up  into  the  yard  of  this  prosperous  colony, 
we  are  reminded  by  a  flock  of  geese  that  they  once  upon  a 
time  saved  Rome.  But  as  we  come  with  peaceful  inten- 
tions, we  are  cordially  greeted  by  the  manager  of  the 
Brotherhood. 

Yes,  this  settlement,  like  others  of  its  kind  and  persua- 
sion, possesses  fields  and  mills  and  barns  and  machinery 
and  all  that  goes  to  make  a  model  farm,  and  something  else 
— some  ancient  manuscripts.  The  young  teacher  soon 
brought  in  several  of  them  for  inspection.  They  are  books 
containing  the  doctrines  of  the  founder  of  the  Brotherhood, 
all  written  by  some  of  the  brothers  in  days  of  old,  in  German 
"print,"  with  the  most  pleasing  exactness.  The  initial  letters 
would  do  credit  to  a  Medieval  expert  scribe.  The  paper  used 


224  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

in  these  volumes  is  soft  rag  paper,  such  as  one  finds  now- 
adays only  in  fancy-priced  editions  de  luxe.  The  title  pages 
show  the  dates  1509  and  1520.  As  we  sat  there  waiting  for 
a  fall  shower  to  pass  by,  our  host  expounded  some  features 
of  the  ancient,  priceless  volumes. 

Before  the  day  closed  we  were  retracing  our  way,  leav- 
ing behind  old  Bon  Homme,  but  carrying  back  with  us 
a  feeling  that  we  had  peered  into  the  past  and  heard  voices 
of  long  ago. 


WenzlafF s  poetic  style  is  admirably  illustrated 
in  one  of  his  lighter  poems,  "In  The  Spring-Time," 
but  more  especially  in  his  best  poem  (elegiacal  in  its 
nature)  entitled  "To  The  End  of  Time." 

IN  THE  SPRING-TIME 

One  name — when  spring  winds  whisper  softly — 
I  hear  amidst  the  green  boughs'  leaves; 

The  creek's  low  song,  the  wild  dove's  crooning — 
That  name  to  me  all  nature  breathes. 

One  face  I  see  in  every  blossom, 

That  meekly  hides  within  the  grass; 
The  evening  clouds  in  hues  of  sunset 

Reflect  that  face  before  they  pass. 

One  dream  so  vague,  so  dreamy,  vivid, 

Like  music  of  a  sylvan  stream, 
Like  fragrance  from  the  prairie  roses — 

My  loved  one  is  my  constant  dream. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  225 

TO  THE  END  OF  TIME 

(In   memory   of   Sarah   F.   Ward.) 

We  should  not  weep  nor  alway  grieve,  for  all 

We  bore  her  out  beneath  the  somber  pall 

To  yonder  sleepy  hill.    Though  clouds  surround 

And  lone  the  height  and  chill  the  granite  bound 

That  marks  where  cerements  invest  and  hold 

The  ashes  of  a  glowing  life  now  cold, 

E'en  there  the  field-fowl  pipes  its  heedless  lay, 

And  buds  hide,  waiting  for  a  better  day. 

What  seek  we  there  among  the  sinking  mounds 

And  pillared  knolls,  where  oft  the  dirge  resounds? 

Not  there  the  soul,  unmindful  of  the  past, 

Midst  shoreless  darkness  and  decay  is  cast — 

That  soul  that  from  unfathomed  depths  the  oil 

Of  love  poured  out  upon  a  parched  soil. 

The  hulls  were  burst — a  wondrous  garden  grew 

And   bloomed,   and   gleamed   with   heaven's    sparkling 

dew. 

Though  anchored  down,  the  branches  loomed  aloft 
To  calmer  heights,  where  zephyrs  pure  and  soft 
Sang  symphonies  inspired  not  of  dust, 
But  breathed  a  mystic  note  of  love  and  trust. 

We  should  not  weep  nor  alway  grieve  because 
Unaltered  stands  the  bitterest  of  God's  laws. 
The  day  dawns  red,  yet  quick  its  course  is  run, 
And  darkness  then  engulfs — the  work  is  done. 
But  in  that  day  we  saw  the  gleam  of  eye 
That  shines,  though  sun  be  darkened  in  the  sky. 
Within  that  gleam  a  world  of  beauty  lay, 
Which  hope  and  sacrifice  had  built  to  stay. 


226  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Ah,  beauteous  world,  whose  fields  are  ever  fair 
And  undefiled  by  Mammon's  greedy  care! 
Its  thousand  hills  with  temples  boldly  crowned 
Proclaim  that  Truth  shall  reign  the  world  around; 
Its  thousand  paths  lead  e'er  to  righteousness; 
Its  lucid  founts  are  streams  of  holiness. 

Why  should  we  weep  or  sigh  or  even  long, 
That  without  close  shall  be  the  inspired  song? 
The  song  is  sung;  the  storm-clouds  now  surround 
The  lonely  height  where  stands  the  granite  bound. 
Yet  even  now  the  spirit  of  that  rhyme 
Sings  on  and  on  until  the  end  of  time. 

Other  good  poems  of  Wenzlaff's  are:  "Autumn 
Revery,"  "Winter  Flowers,"  "The  Blind  Piper," 
"The  Meadow-Lark"  and  "The  Four  Bards." 

In  addition  to  his  own  composition,  Wenzlaff 
is  also  a  fine  translator,  especially  from  the  German. 
His  translation  of  "The  Chaplet,"  from  "Uhland," 
is  a  perfect  piece  of  work.  It  follows: 

THE  CHAPLET 

Yonder  stands  the  mountain  chaplet 

Looking  quietly  down  the  vale; 
There  below  by  mead  and  brooklet 

Sings  the  shepherd  boy  so  hale. 

Mournful  tolls  the  bell  from  yonder, 

Awful  sounds  the  funeral  lay, 
Hushed  is  now  the  merry  singer 

By  the  chanting  far  away. 

They  are  borne  to  graves  up  yonder 

Who  enjoyed  themselves  below. 
Shepherd  boy,  ah!  list  young  shepherd, 

Twill  be  sung  for  thee  just  so! 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 
Hundreds  upon  hundreds  of  miscellaneous 
poems  have  appeared  in  the  newspapers  and  maga- 
zines of  the  state,  from  time  to  time  during  the 
past  thirty-five  years,  that  have  never  been  collected 
in  permanent  form.  Some  of  these  are  extraordi- 
narily strong.  Others  are  mere  outcrops  of  fantasy 
suited  to  some  occasion  of  the  moment.  In  the  pre- 
paration of  this  book  nearly  2,000  of  them  have  been 
discarded.  There  are  a  few,  however,  which  are 
entitled  to  preservation.  One  of  these  is  from  the 
pen  of  General  George  A.  Silsby.  It  follows : 

THE  FLAG 

Oh!  starry  flag,  with  field  of  blue, 

With  stripes  of  red  and  stripes  of  white; 

Thou  standest  for  the  things  most  true — 
For  Honor,  Justice,  Right. 

We  gladly  hail  this  emblem  pure, 

This  banner  of  our   country's   pride; 

For  you  our  sons  will  e'er  endure; 
For  you  our  noblest  died. 

From  heaven's  high  dome  you  richly  shine, 

And  radiance  cast  on  all  around; 
Thy  form  speaks  of  a  love  divine 

That  knows  no  captive  bound. 

Oh!  starry  flag,  forever  wave, 

For  Freedom  pure,  and  righteous  laws; 

Within    thy    folds    conceal    no    slave, 
Nor  treasure  any  flaws. 


LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Another  poem,  entitled,  "Know  Ye  The  Land?" 
ringing  in  state  pride,  written  for  a  banquet,  by 
Hon.  E.  L.  Abel,  formerly  lieutenant-governor  of 
South  Dakota,  is  worthy  of  study: 

KNOW  YE  THE  LAND? 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  blue  joint  doth  flourish, 

And  cattle  on  prairies  grow  heavy  with  fat; 

Where  the  white-coated  sheep  in  winter  do  nourish 

The  grasses  which  cover  the  earth  like  a  mat; 

Where  the  growing  of  wheat  brings  the  gold  from  the  east, 

Where  people  ne'er  hunger  but  are  ever  at  feast; 

Where  the  owner  of  sheep  has  a  fortune  in  sight, 

And  hard  times  are  past  while  the  future  is  bright; 

Where  potatoes,  rye,  barley  and  long-headed  oats 

Make  the  farmer's  life  easy  in  the  raising  of  shoats; 

Where  the  cow's  golden  butter  and  the  fruit  of  the  hen 

Are  the  products  which  bring  such  large  fortunes  to  men; 

Where  the  country  is  blessed  with  the  richest  of  soil, 

And  bountiful  harvests  reward  man  for  his  toil; 

Where  bright  gold  and  silver  in  profusion  abound 

And  beautiful  jasper  for  building  is  found; 

Where  churches  in  plenty  raise  toward  heaven  their  spires 

And  schools  in  great  numbers  furnish  learning's  desires; 

Where  the  song  of  the  plow  boy  is  heard  early  at  morn 

As  he  goes  forth  to  till  the  broad  acres  of  corn; 

Where  the  maid's  rosy  cheeks  are  the  youth's  wild  delight 

While  their  beautiful  eyes  shine  like  stars  of  the  night; 

Where  matrons  meet  age  with  faces  so  fair 

That  they  seem  ever  youthful,  though  silvered  their  hair; 

Where  Hygeia's  blessings  are  showered  upon  all 

And  summer  keeps  smiling  until  late  in  the  fall; 

Where  winters  are  short  and  soon  melt  into  spring; 

Where  the  harvest  is  crowned  by  Mondamin,  the  king; 


POETS  AND  POETRY  229 

Where  the  flower  of  its  youth  to  rescue  suffering  afar, 

Promptly  respond  to  the  call  of  the  nation  to  war? 

Know  ye  the  land?     'Tis  the  land  which  we  love, 

Which  hath  been  bountifully  blessed  by  the  Father  above; 

Tis  our  fair  South  Dakota  which  nature  has  blest, 

According  humanity  a  place  of  sweet  rest; 

And  today  she  invites  the  proud  sons  of  the  East 

To  sit  at  her  tables  and  partake  of  her  feast. 


Mr.  C.  J.  Ajsenbrey  is,  at  the  time  of  going  to 
press  with  the  first  edition  of  this  book  (1916),  just 
beginning  to  come  into  recognition  as  a  poetical 
writer.  Two  of  his  poems  are  herein  given — the  one 
local,  the  other  universal. 

A  SONG  OF  THE  SUNSHINE  STATE 

I  love  my  mother  state  the  best, 
Sunshine  state,  my  Sunshine  state. 

The  best  state  of  the  great  northwest, 
Sunshine   state,  my   Sunshine  state. 
'Sing  all  ye  sons,  sing  of  your  state, 

The  state  that  has  no  match  nor  mate, 

Oh,  sing  a  song  of  Sunshine  state, 
Sunshine  state,  my  Sunshine  state. 

From  thee  I've  wandered  far  and  near, 
Sunshine  state,  my  Sunshine  state. 

Still  to  my  heart  you  are  so  dear, 
Sunshine  state,  my  Sunshine  state. 

Though  far  and  wide  I've  traveled  o'er, 

In  U.  S.  A.  from  shore  to  shore, 

But  still  above  all  I'll  thee  adore, 
Sunshine  state,  my  Sunshine  state. 


230  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Thy  goldfields  in  thy  western  hills, 

Sunshine  state,  my  Sunshine  state. 
Are  rich  with  gold  and  copper  mills, 
Sunshine  state,  my  Sunshine  state. 
Thy  fields  are  full  of  golden  grain, 
Thy  prairie  plains  have  brought  thee  fame, 
All  o'er  the  world  I  hear  thy  name, 
Sunshine  state,  my  Sunshine  state. 

Let's  sing  fore'er  of  our  great  state, 
Sunshine  state,  our  Sunshine  State. 
Her  glorious  past  all  o'er  narrate. 

Sunshine  state,  our  Sunshine  state. 
Though  far  away  from  her  we  be, 
E'en  though  we  be  across  the  sea, 
Still  let  us  sing  of  our  S.  D. 

Sunshine  state,  our  Sunshine  state. 


RISEN,  RISEN  IS  THE  LORD! 

Risen,  risen  is  the  Lord, 

Risen  from  the  grave! 
Seek  not  life  among  the  dead, 

Christ  is  not  Death's  slave! 

Christ  is  risen!  Christ  is  King! 

Christ  has  left  the  tomb! 
Christ,  who  came  on  earth  to  save, 

Sinners  from  the  doom. 

Sinners,   rise   with   your   Redeemer, 

Follow  Christ  the  King! 
Shout  as  victors  with  the  Savior, 

"Death  where  is  thy  sting?" 


POETS  AND  POETRY  231 

Triumph  sinners!  Praise  the  Lord! 

For  the  ransom's  paid! 
Christ  has  conquered  sin  and  death, 

Peace  with  God  is  made. 

Hallelujah!     Christ  is  King! 

Let  us  Him  adore! 
Christ  is  risen!     Christ  is  King, 

King  for  evermore! 


Andrew  F.  Burleigh,  Jr.,  has  written  a  number 
of  short  poems.  None  of  them,  however,  pertain 
strictly  to  South  Dakota.  They  are  general  in  their 
character  and  all  of  them  are  good.  The  following 
brief  one  will  suffice  to  give  his  general  style: 

IN  MEMORIAM 

(To  my  Mother.) 

That  tender  voice,  alas!  is  gone. 
Those  beauteous  orbs  which  brightly  shone, 
That  form  seraphic,  round  which  blazed 
A  living  halo,  time  has  razed 
To  silent  dust.     That  angel-step, 
Which  like  a  winged  spirit  swept 
With   tinking  footfalls    o'er   life's   floor — 
Alas!  it  wakes  no  echo  more. 
Those  loving  arms,  once  childhood's  nest, 
Now  withering  lie.     That  snowy  breast, 
Love's  first  elysium — death,  alas! 
Has  kissed  it  back  to  that  it  was. 
Those  sweet  lips,  where  love's  kisses  grew — 
•  Alas!  they  now  lie  withering,  too. 


232  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

A  somewhat  intellectual  writer  who  has  given 
to  us  a  small  volume  of  musings,  entitled  "Across 
the  Wheat,"  is  Will  Dillman.  In  a  general  way  they 
all  conform  to  the  character  of  the  following,  partic- 
ularly as  to  style  of  composition : 

THE  MOODS 

I  conned  a  poet's  book  from  page  to  page, 

And  marked  the  many  moods  in  which  he  sung. 

And  some  were  early  songs,  and  bold,  and  rung 
Of  love  and  wine,  and  passions,  and  the  rage 
Of  his  wild,  violent  heart.     And  some  the  sage, 

Man-grown,   had   writ;    and   here,   it  seemed,  the 
tongue 

Of  mighty  genius,  free  and  curbless,  flung 
Its  priceless  thoughts  to  men.     But  in  old  age, 
In  the  calm  autumn,  free  from  pang  or  pain, 

O,  then  his  songs  were  sweetest  to  the  ear; 

He  sang  of  sunsets  in  the  golden  west, 
Of  yellow  harvest  moons,  and  gathered  grain, 

Of  heaven,  and  the  hour  we  tarry  here — 

I  loved  the  tranquil  songs   of  age  the  best. 

Of  the  scattered  poems  from  the  pen  of  Fannie 
E.  Knapp,  the  one  on  "Sowing  and  Reaping"  has 
been  selected. 

SOWING  AND  REAPING 

When  we  sow,  we  sow  in  faith, 

For  the  seed  must  buried  lie 
Many  days  before  we  see 

Signs  of  harvest  by  and  by. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  233 

When  we  plant,  we  plant  in  faith, 

For  the  growth  of  trees  is  slow. 
Many  summers  must  we  wait 

For  the  perfect  fruit  to  grow. 

When  we  pray,  pray  we  in  faith 

As  we  sow  and  plant  and  trust, 
Never  doubting  while  we  wait, 

That  our  God  is  faithful,  just? 

Or  do  we  in  doubt  and  fear 

Murmur  at  the  long  delay? 
Mourn  because  we  have  to  wait? 
Cry  that  God  has  turned  away? 

Say  we  will  not  sow,  because 

Harvests  yield  not  on  the  morn? 
Say  we  will  not  pray  because 

Patient  hope  brings  oft  but  scorn? 

Better  both  to  sow  and  pray; 

And   in   strongest  faith  believing, 
We  shall  some  not  distant  day 

Know  the  blessing  of  receiving. 


B.  W.  Burleigh  wrote  for  us  a  number  of  poems 
that  are  clever  in  the  extreme.  But  the  one,  above 
all  others,  that  is  destined  to  live,  on  account  of  its 
universality,  is  a  delicate  sketch  entitled  "Grand- 
ma." This  is  perhaps  as  nearly  a  completed  whole 
as  any  poem  in  South  Dakota  literature.  It  is  a 
moving  bit  of  realism  on  a  subject  that  is  dear  in 
the  memory  of  everyone. 


234  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

GRANDMA 

My  old  Grandma  used  to  say 
Always  to  us  children,  "Hey?" 
Dear  old  soul,  she  could  not  hear 
Till  we  shouted  in  her  ear. 
Sometimes  when  the  dog  would  bark, 
Grandma  dear  would  say,  "Hush,  hark!" 
Sometimes  when  the  cat  would  play, 
Grandma  dear  would  answer,  "Hey?" 

I  can  see  her  sitting  there, 
Knitting  in  her  rocking  chair. 
How  we  children  thought  it  fun, 
Yelling  by  her  side,  to  run, 
Hiding  from  her  poor  dim  sight, 
Ere  she  got  half  through  her  fright! 
How  we  teased  her  every  day, 
Laughing  at  her  quaint  old  "Hey?" 

But  when  stripped  all  off  for  bed, 
And  our  evening  prayer  was  said, 
We  would  never  think  of  fear 
While  Grandma  was  sitting  near; 
But  if  she  would  take  the  light 
For  a  moment  out  of  sight, 
We  were  glad  to  hear  her  say 
From  some  distant  corner,  "Hey?" 

Many  winters  now  have  fled 

Since  she  watched  beside  my  bed; 

Many  summers  passed  away 

Since  I've  heard  her  answer,  "Hey?" 

Calmly  rests  her  silv'ry  head 

In  the  city  of  the  dead, 

But  I'd  give  the  world  today 

Just  to  hear  her  answer,  "Hey?" 


POETS  AND  POETRY  235 

Two  of  the  weightiest  philosophical  productions 
in  "Dakota  Rhymes"  are  two  sister  poems,  by  W.  J. 
McMurty,  entitled  "Morning"  and  "Evening."  They 
are  long  and  cannot  be  incorporated  herein,  but 
should  be  studied  as  a  part  of  our  literature,  from 
the  book  in  which  they  appear. 

The  real  value  of  a  friend  has  been  beautifully 
pictured  for  us  by  Flora  M.  Swift  in 

LIFE'S  BEST  GIFT 

On  the  shore  of  the  great  unknown, 
All    tremblingly,    I    stood    alone, 
Waiting  till  Death  should  kindly  come 
To  me,  and  claim  me  as  his  own. 

But  Death,  unkind  as  Life,  passed  by, 
Unheeding  my  despairing  cry; 
I  could  not  lay  my  burden  down; 
Alas,  for  me!     I  could  not  die. 

Then  in  my  anguish,  did  I  call, 
"O  life!  Since  Death  has  taken  all, 
And  left  me  in  my  bitter  woe, 
On  me,  I  pray,  let  one  gift  fall." 

And  Life  smiled  back,  "Not  yet  the  end; 
O  patience,  heart,  and  I  will  send 
My  first,  most  precious  gift  to  thee." 
The  treasure  came;  it  was  a  friend. 


Frank  M.  Wentworth  has  translated  for  us  from 
Heine,  "You  Pretty  Fisher  Maiden;"  from  Eichen- 
dorff,  "The  Echo,"  and  from  Goethe,  the  "Mignon." 
He  has  also  given  to  us  from  his  original  composi- 
tions, the  following  poem : 


236  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

OUR  PRAIRIE  FLOWERS 

When  he  this  world  had  fashioned  well 
To   be  his   children's   home, 

The  Father  came  with  us  to  dwell, 
And  in  the  floweret  shone. 

His  spirit  sought  the  farthest  shore, 
And  left  some  token  there 

That  might  to  us  in  buds  it  bore 
Unfold  a  Father's  care. 

He  gave  arbutus  to  the  grove, 

The  clover  to  the  mead; 
Where'er  our  wandering  feet  may  rove 

There  blooms  our  nature's  need. 

To  cheer  the  desert's  lonely  way 

The  bright  acacia  grows. 
The  lowly  mosses'  crimson  ray 

Lights  up  the  Alpine  snows. 

But  when  he  viewed  our  prairie  land 
No  single  flower  could  choose, 

And  so  he  strewed  with  loving  hand 
His  choicest  seeds  profuse. 


Among  our  miscellaneous  poets,  recognition 
must  be  given  to  A.  E.  Beaumont.  His  youthful 
reveries  are  fascinating.  Three  of  his  later  poems 
are  high  grade.  They  are  "Giving,"  "The  Passing 
of  the  Falls,"  and  "Memorial."  The  first  one  is  given 
in  full: 


POETS  AND  POETRY  237 

GIVING 

There  is  in  grace  an  ample  store 

Of  benediction,  sent  to  bless 
The  heart,  whene'er  it  bows  before 

The  altar  of  unselfishness. 

And  we  receive  no  dearer  gift 

Of  happiness,  than  we  plan 
To  leave  our  beaten  path,  and  lift 

His  burden  from  a  fellow  man. 

The  stream  of  bounty  long  hath  flowed 
From  many  a  living  spring  supplied. 

And  every  cheerful  gift  bestowed, 
Is  to  the  giver  multiplied. 

What  tender  joy  the,  mother  knows, 
That  wells  from  Nature's  kindly  spring, 

When  to  her  infant's  lips  there  flows 
Her  fruitful  bosom's  offering. 

The  blessings  we  receive  from  Heaven 

Refill  the  cup  that  we  dispense: 
And  by  the  largess  we  have  given, 

Is  measured  out  our  recompense. 


James  Fremont  Hall,  the  student  poet  of  Yank- 
ton  College,  who  enjoyed  the  unique  distinction  of 
being  called  to  a  membership  on  the  faculty  of  his 
Alma  Mater  on  the  day  of  his  graduation,  must  be 
accorded  recognition  as  a  poet  by  reason  of  the 
following  poem  (in  addition  to  many  others),  which 


238  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

he  wrote  during  his  early  college  days.  It  bears 
prima  facia  evidence  that  had  he  not  died  when 
scarcely  out  of  his  'teens,  he  would  have  made  a 
literary  record  for  himself. 

IN  HIBERNIS 

A  shroud  of  white  above  the  faded  green; 

A  rigid  corse,  appareled  for  the  tomb; 

And  all  about  a  hateful  marble  sheen, 

That  by  its  glare  intensifies  the  gloom. 

Who  is  the  dead  that  'neath  these  trappings  lies, 

A  haunting  bait  for  morbid  curious  eyes? 

Whose  hands  o'erclasp  the  heart-deserted  breast? 

Whose  name  upon  the  coffin  plate  is  graved? 

Were  soothing  masses  chanted  to  his  rest? 

Oh,  did  he  pray,  whom  Stygian  waters  laved? 

The  earth,  it  is,  that  lies  in  pallor  here; 

The  earth  that  seemed  so  far  from  death  in  May. 

What  voice  can  tell  how  vast  the  gulf  and  drear, 

May  ope'  twixt  rosy  dawn  and  twilight  grey! 

Now  lo,  a  storm  across  his  breast  careens, 

Boreas  bursts  his  icy  magazines, 

And  tears  and  wrenches  at  the  shrieking  trees. 

Rolls  up  the  snows  to  lash  their  parent  cloud, 

E'en  digs  the  hills,  as  hungering  to  seize 

The  insects  cowering  'neath  the  hillside's  shroud. 

While  thus  I  saw,  and  wondered  at  it  all— 
And  wondered  if  the  earth  would  bloom  again, 
And  wondered  if  Death's  sodden  chain  and  ball 
Were  never  stricken  from  the  souls  of  men; 
While  thus  I  wondered — sudden  music  woke; 
(Perhaps  some  spirit  to  my  spirit  spoke) 


POETS  AND  POETRY  239 

"Awake  from  thy  visions  thou  saturnine  being, 

Nor  mourn  for  the  sunlight  as  lost. 
Neither  Summer  nor  Sun  from  the  conflict  are  fleeing, 
And  soon  thou  wilt  see  their  bright  scimeters  freeing 

The  earth  from  the  fetters  of  frost. 

"Go  burrow  the  snow  banks  and  ask  the  primroses, 

If  theirs  is  the  sleep  of  the  dead? 
Go  ask  the  arbutus  if  e'er  she  supposes 
Eternal  the  pillow  on  which   she   reposes — 

Eternal  the  snows  of  her  bed? 

"Close,  close  by  the  ice  of  the  frigid  Sierra 

The  orange  blooms  sprinkle  the  sod; 
While,  alike,  from  the  sands  of  the  charnel  Sahara 
Burst  withering  floods  of  the  waters  of  Mara, 

And  floods  of  the  nectar  of  God. 

"Oh  read,  ere  the  locks  at  thy  temples  have  whitened, 
The  parable  written  in  frost: 
That    nothing    which    once    'neath    the    sunlight    has 

brightened, 
No     soul    which    the     touch    of     God's     finger    has 

lightened, 
Is  ever  eternally  lost." 


Prof.  C.  G.  St.  John,  of  Clear  Lake,  has  written 
a  few  choice  poems.  One  of  his  very  best  ones  is  his 
"Veterans'  Day,"  written  for  the  G.  A.  R.  in  1902. 
Another  one,  less  powerful,  but  studiously  historical, 
is  herein  given: 


240  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

THE  FIRST  REGIMENT 

O'er  Dakota's  fertile  plain 

Came  the  war  of  the  "Maine", 
And  it  stirred  the  blood  within  each  patriot  heart. 

When  they  heard  the  call  to  arms, 

Many  left  their  shops  and  farms, 
And  resolved  that  they  would  do  a  soldier's  part. 

They  were  gathered  at  Sioux  Falls, 

Where  they  heard  the  bugle  calls, 
And  they  saw  the  lines  a-drilling  all  in  blue. 

Then  they  deemed  it  naught  but  joys 

To  be  honest  soldier  boys, 
While  they  camped  beside  the  waters  of  the  Sioux. 

O'er  the  granite  ledge  they  walked, 

Of  the  coming  days  they  talked, 
And  the  daring  deeds  that  some  of  them  would  do; 

But,  'twas  little  thought  they  bore 

What  the  future  had  in  store, 
As  they  dreamed  in  peace  beside  the  placid  Sioux. 

But,  at  last  the  orders  came, 

They  must  cross  the  raging  main; 
Of  that  fighting  with  the  foe  they  little  knew. 

They  must  leave  their  sweethearts  gay, 

Leave  their  parents  old  and  gray, 
Leave  their  camp  beside  the  willow  fringed  Sioux. 

When  the  parting  day  had  come, 

Fathers,  Mothers  gathered  'round 
There  to  bid  their  soldier' boys  a  last  adieu. 

Some  of  them  would  ne'er  return, 

And  it  made  those  old  hearts  yearn, 
As  the  train  bore  off  their  bonny  lads  in  blue. 


POETS  AND  POETRY  241 

On  and  on  those  loved  ones  sped, 

Where  the  path  of  duty  led, 
O'er  the  plains  and  through  the  mountain  pass  they  whirled. 

O'er  old  ocean's  briny  waves, 

Though  it  led  to  nameless  graves, 
They  would  proudly  bear  "Old  Glory"   'round  the  world. 

In  Luzon's  wild  darks  and  damps, 

By  her  lakes  and  fever  swamps, 
Some  are  lying  where. they  hear  no  bugle  call. 

In  the  fight  from  day  to  day 

Gallant  men  have  passed  away, 
With  no  fond  ones  near  to  care  for  those  who  fall. 

Many  anxious  days  have  passed 

Since  we  saw  those  dear  ones  last, 
And  we  know  that  some  have  fallen  in  the  strife. 

How  those  fond  old  parents  mourn 

For  the  boys  who'll  ne'er  return, 
And  'twill  ever  cast  a  shadow  on  their  life. 

Yes,  those  laddies  all  were  brave, 

And  some  fill  a  hero's  grave 
Where  they  fell  beside  the  trenches  of  the  foe. 

South  Dakota's  won  a  name 

By  her  gallant  soldiers'  fame; 
But,  the  glory  ne'er  can  pay  the  mothers'  woe. 


C.  H.  Creed  has  written  one  poem  strong  enough 
to  entitle  him  to  a  place  in  the  literature  of  the  state. 
It  is  rather  unusual  in  its  philosophic  setting;  yet, 
in  some  respects,  it  takes  rank  with  many  of  our  best 
productions : 


242  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

"PASS  ON" 

"Pass  on,  pass  on!"  We  feel  our  steps  impelled 

By  hand  invisible,  our  faces  bent 

Toward  the  realm  of  death,  whose  shady  hand 

Comes  forth  to  grasp  us,  our  brief  vigor  spent. 

And  ever  as  we  wend  the  weary  trail 

That  awful  and  unseeming  power  around 

Cries  with  a  tone  unheard,  unfelt,  but  known, 

"Pass  on,  pass  on  thy  life's  resistless  round." 

This  busy  world  a  mighty  highway  is, 

A  rugged  way  which  ends  in  shadow  dense, 

Down  which  the  human  cavalcade,  alike 

Both  great  and  small  pass  on  their  journey  thence. 

And  as  I  look,  the  restless,  hurrying  mass 

Of  human  shapes   goes   on  before  my  eyes; 

Some  see  the  valley  long  before  they  come, 

While  others  meet  the  shades  in  sheer  surprise. 

Each  has  his  tale  of  travel  to  relate, 

Words  of  the  rabble  bear  the  selfsame  song, 

But  here  are  some  who  by  their  acts,  anon, 

Stand  out  in  bold  relief  against  the  throng. 

"Pass  on,  pass  on!"  The  ever  goading  words 

Sound  like  a  knell  in  maiden  beauty's  ears, 

Forcing  her  toward  the  overhanging  pall, 

Quenching  with  darkness  all  the  sobs  and  tears, 

Tearing  her  from  the  gay  and  laughing  friends, 

Mocking  the  shadow  in  their  own  conceit, 

Yet,  ever  in  accordance  with  the  power 

Pushing  the  dust  with  glad  unknowing  feet. 

"Pass  on,  pass  on!"  The  aged  one  would  turn 

And  face  once  more  the  gladsome  way  of  yore, 

When  with  his  happy  comrades,  all  his  thought 

Was  to  the  flowery  by-way  not  the  fore. 

Yet  ever  though  in  memory  he  turn, 

His  steps,  impelled  by  that  unheard  command, 

Move  ever  onward  to  the  ghastly  shades 


POETS  AND  POETRY  243 

To  join  with  others  in  an  unseen  land. 
"Pass  on!"  The  priest  with  humble  step  and  slow, 
With  never  backward  look  or  faltering  heart, 
With  hands  outstretched  to  bless  his  lowly  flock 
Approaches  slow  the  dull  and  dusky  mart 
Where  death  is  given  for  life  and  life  for  death, 
And  as  the  ages  ever  onward  roll, 
The  body  and  the  pleasure  of  a  life 
Are  bartered  for  the  lifetime  of  a  soul. 
So  in  the  shadow  strides  the  priest,  in  hand 
The  crucifix  to  which  his  faith  is  pinned, 
And  as  the  darkness  closes  over  him 
His  churchly  robe  drifts  backward  on  the  wind. 
"Pass  on,  pass  on!"  A  youth  with  buoyant  step 
A  fair  bride  leads  adown  the  crowded  way, 
Whose  white  hands  reach  imploringly  above 
As  "On,  pass  on!"  He  must  the  word  obey. 
"Pass  on,  pass  on!"  The  turbaned  Hindoo  strides, 
And  peers  beyond  the  gloom  for  Buddha's  end 
And  feels  himself  a  mark  of  Allah's  grace. 
The  Christian  white  man  of  the  favored  lands, 
The  simple  red  man  of  the  western  plain, 
The  swart  Egyptian,  and  the  Pagan  Moor 
Would  minister  to  each  other's  misled  brain. 
And  yet  the  Christian  and  the  Pagan  feet, 
The  self -same  pathway  in  the  self-same  hour 
Unto  the  self-same  shadows  do  traverse, 
Impelled  forever  by  the  self-same  power. 
Then  let  us  be  resigned  and  when  the  hour 
Arrives  when  we  must  meet  the  shadows  dense, 
Like  to  the  red  men  in  their  native  haunts 
Go  strike  in  silent  awe  the  weakened  tents, 
And  as  the  gathering  shadows  of  the  night 
In  silence  take  the  place  of  ruddy  day, 
Cast  not  a  look  of  sorrow  or  regret 
But  in  the  gloaming  silent  steal  away. 


244  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Although  there  are  in  the  following  volumes 
of  verse  which  have  lain  in  the  state  historical  de- 
partment for  many  years  a  number  of  good  selec- 
tions, yet  none  of  them  could  be  incorporated  into 
this  book  at  this  time : 

Mary  Cummins,  "Rhymes  of  a  Lifetime." 
James    Davies,    "Threads    of    Gold    Woven    in 
Verse." 

John  E.  Kelley,  "The  Age  of  Gold." 
In    1906,    a   Reverend   Mr.    Smith,   of   Huron, 
brought  out  a  volume  of  verse,  but  it  was  not  widely 
read,  because  the  poems  lacked  vitality. 

Access  to  quite  a  number  of  other  volumes  of 
pioneer  poetry  may  be  had  at  the  Department  of 
History,  in  the  State  Capitol,  at  Pierre. 


CHAPTER  II 

PROSE  WRITERS 

Prose  writers  naturally  divide  themselves  into 
four  main  classes :  Novelists,  Historians,  Journalists, 
and  Scientific  writers.  These  divisions  will,  as  far 
as  practicable,  be  respected  in  this  section  of  this 
book. 

NOVELISTS 

In  the  classification  of  the  subject  matter  in  this 
volume,  it  has  been  practically  impossible  to  differ- 
entiate between  the  Poets  and  the  Novelists,  because 
of  the  fact  that  several  of  the  writers  have  become 
prominent  and  have  been  recognized  in  both  fields. 
This  is  especially  true  of  Joseph  Mills  Hanson  who 
has  written  two  books  of  history,  two  of  fiction,  a 
Pageant,  and  one  volume  of  poetry;  also  of  Hamlin 
Garland  whose  prose  productions  far  outbalanced 
his  poems.  It  became  necessary,  however,  to  classi- 
fy them  among  the  poets,  owing  to  the  fact  that  you 
cannot  quote  at  length  from  a  prose  work.  They 
will,  nevertheless,  have  to  be  considered  in  both 
fields. 

Those  who  have  been  treated  herein  as  "novel- 
ists" are,  therefore,  the  ones  who  have  written 
novels  exclusively,  who  are  recognized  as  novelists 
and  who  have  left  poetry  entirely  alone. 


Kate  and  Virgil  D.  Boyles 

Biographical — Virgil:  Born,  Louisville,  Illinois,  January 
22,  1872.  Family  removed  to  Dakota  in  1874.  Settled  on 
claim  near  Olivet. 

Kate:  Born,  Olivet,  S.  D.,  1876.  Family  removed  to 
Yankton  in  latter  '70's. 

Both  of  them  educated  in  the  Yankton  city  schools  and 
at  Yankton  college. 

Kate  taught  in  the  country;  also  for  three  years  in  the 
Yankton  schools,  and  one  year  in  Boyle's  Business  college, 
Mitchell,  S.  D.  Married  J.  H.  Bingham,  1908.  Home  in 
Chamberlain. 

Virgil  settled  in  Mitchell  in  1898.  Court  reporter,  fourth 
judicial  circuit.  Married  Grace  Glezen,  1897.  Father  of  two 
children — a  girl  and  a  boy. 


KATE  AND  VIRGIL  D.  BOYLES 

In  the  realm  of  fiction  the  two  South  Dakota 
writers  who  have  gained  the  greatest  recognition 
thus  far  are  a  sister  and  brother — Kate  and  Virgil 
D.  Boyles.  These  two  writers  have  adhered  rigidly 
to  prose  composition.  Their  mastery  of  ideal 
English,  their  powers  of  imagery  and  their  ability 
to  portray  life — all  combine  to  make  them  our  best- 
loved  authors. 

Their  first  book,  entitled  "Langford  of  the 
Three  Bars,"  which  appeared  in  1907,  proved  to  be 
a  great  seller;  in  fact  the  yearly  sales  of  it  to  this 
day  still  run  into  the  thousands.  For  a  long  while 
it  was  the  McClurg  Company's  heaviest  seller  over 
their  retail  counter  in  Chicago.  Eastern  life  had 
been  threshed  bare  by  eastern  authors.  Down-east 
folk  were  hungry  for  something  western.  This 
book  helped  to  gratify  them. 

It  has  an  attractive  title — one  of  the  chief 
assets  in  stimulating  sales  for  any  production.  It 
is  admirably  illustrated  in  colors  by  N.  C.  Wyeth, 
whose  ability  to  portray  western  life  commands  re- 
spect. 

In  the  early  days  of  Dakota,  one  of  the  greatest 
outlaws  and  cattle  rustlers  in  the  whole  country  was 
the  notorious  Jack  Sully.  He  was  shot  on  a  lonely 
island  in  the  Missouri  river  by  a  posse  under  Deputy 


,248  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

U.  S.  Marshal  Petrie,  in  1904,  after  he  had  broken 
jail  at  Mitchell  a  few  months  before.  Sully,  under 
an  assumed  name,  is  made  to  play  the  leading  role 
in  "Langford  of  the  Three  Bars."  It  is  a  typical 
western  story  with  the  plot  covering  the  region 
around  the  mouth  of  the  White  river  where  it 
empties  into  the  Missouri. 

The  opening  chapter,  headed  "The  Island  With 
a  Mystery,"  carries  a  person  boldly  and  at  once 
to  the  scene  of  human  disaster.  The  reader's  at- 
tention is  promptly  arrested.  In  the  second  chapter 
one  is  put  directly  "On  The  Trail,"  while  in  the  third, 
"Louise"  is  introduced  with  telling  effect.  It  is, 
withal,  a  masterpiece  of  fiction,  with  an  historical 
setting  which  gives  to  it  much  of  the  nature  of  an 
historical  novel. 

The  leading  character  passes  through  many 
startling  incidents ;  is  caught ;  placed  in  jail ;  escapes ; 
and,  finally,  in  Chapter  XXII,  makes  "The  Outlaw's 
Last  Stand." 

Of  the  four  books  which  the  Boyles  have  now 
placed  upon  the  market — all  of  them  through  A.  C. 
McClurg  &  Co.,  of  Chicago — their  first  one  is  evi- 
dently their  best,  provided  its  merits  can  be  ascer- 
tained by  its  demand. 

In  1909,  their  second  book  appeared.  It  is 
called  "The  Homesteaders ;"  and  like  their  first  one, 
the  plot  to  it  is  laid  in  the  region  west  of  the  Mis- 
souri river,  in  South  Dakota.  This  one  also  proved 
popular.  It  was  followed  in  1910  by  "The  Spirit 


PROSE    WRITERS  249 

Trail,"  an  Indian  tale  growing  out  of  "The  Treaty  of 
Laramie"  in  1868.  Although  the  plot  is  laid  in 
Wyoming,  it  shifts  its  way  across  South  Dakota,  and 
has  a  great  deal  to  do  with  the  development  of  the 
region  around  Yankton  during  territorial  days. 

Their  last  book,  'The  Hoosier  Volunteer,"  came 
from  press  in  1914.  For  a  soul-stirring  tragedy — 
that  is,  for  a  succession  of  minor  tragedies,  which, 
when  put  together,  make  up  a  completed  whole — it 
certainly  outclasses  their  first  book;  although  its 
demand,  to  date,  could  not  be  given  a  comparative 
rating  with  the  first  one  which  has  now  been  on  the 
market  for  nine  years.  The  recurring  ghost  story 
in  it  surpasses  anything  of  its  kind  in  English — the 
one  in  Hawthorne's  "House  of  Seven  Gables,"  or 
indeed,  "The  White  Old  Maid"  itself,  not  excepted. 


LOUISE  ELLIOT 

One  of  the  happy  volumes  that  appeared  upon 
the  market  during  1913  was  Mrs.  Elliott's  "Six 
Weeks  On  Horseback  Through  Yellowstone  Park." 
It  is,  in  reality,  a  travelogue  containing  fifty-two 
high  grade  illustrations  of  scenery  in  the  park.  The 
book  contains  the  camp  letters  which  Mrs.  Elliott  is 
presumed  to  have  written  to  her  parents  during  her 
journey.  These  letters  are  knit  together  by  a  dainty 
love  story  that  gives  to  them  a  fascination  out  of  the 
ordinary.  The  book  is  valuable  for  its  wealth  of 
detailed  geographical  information. 


Mrs.  Jewell  Bothwell-Tull 

Biographical — Born,  Yates  Center,  Kansas,  Aug.  3,  1892. 
Removed  to  Montana,  then  Idaho,  then  Utah.  Educated  in 
University  of  Idaho.  Specialized  on  English  and  French. 
Spent  one  year  abroad.  Studied  French  in  Paris.  Married 
Prof.  Clyde  Tull,  1912.  Home  at  Mitchell,  S.  D.  Instructor 
in  French,  Dakota  Wesleyan  University.  Has  written 
numerous  short  stories  and  poems,  published  by  eastern 
houses.  Author  of  two  books  to  date.  She  is  a  member  of 
the  Delta  Gamma  National  Society  and  her  biography  appears 
in  the  book,  "Who's  Who  in  Delta  Gamma." 


JEWELL  BOTHWELL-TULL 
A  new  book  which  appeared  in  1915  is  Mrs. 
Tull's  "Winning  of  the  Bronze  Cross."  It  is  the 
story  of  a  boy  scout  who  leaves  Chicago  on  Sunday 
afternoon  and  starts  to  Idaho  to  visit  his  uncle. 
Throughout  the  long  journey  he  encounters  a  start- 
ling series  of  misfortunes ;  yet  in  all  of  these  trying 
circumstances  the  boy  acquits  himself  in  a  splendid 
way  and  out  of  his  many  trials  he  emerges  each 
time  possessed  with  the  spirit  of  a  true  boy  scout. 
The  story  reveals  a  sympathetic  knowledge  of  boy 
nature,  his  struggles,  his  failures,  his  successes,  and 
his  ideals. 

A  fitting  companion  to  her  first  book,  entitled 
"Rob  Riley— The  Making  of  a  Boy  Scout/'  issued 
from  press  this  year  (1916) .  In  it  she  has  used  some 
of  the  characters  of  her  former  book,  and  by  adding 
several  new  ones  she  has  worked  out  a  plot  that  in 
the  end  reveals  a  typical  boy  scout  in  the  finest 
light. 

Mrs.  Tull  is  also  author  of  two  plays,  "Home" 
and  "Rose-Petal,"  both  of  which  have  been  success- 
fully produced. 


Dr.  Will  Lillibridge 

Biographical — Born,  Union  County,  Iowa,  1878.  Raised 
on  a  farm.  Graduated,  Dental  Department  Iowa  State  Uni- 
versity, 1898.  Came  to  Sioux  Falls.  Practiced  Dentistry. 
Wrote  six  novels  and  one  descriptive  book.  Died  Jan.  29,  1909. 


WILL  LILLIBRIDGE 

Among  our  novelists,  proper,  the  name  of  Dr. 
Will  Lillibridge,  of  Sioux  Falls,  holds  a  prominent 
place.  It  is  unfortunate  that  one  possessed  of  such 
talents  as  he,  should  have  died  at  the  age  of  thirty- 
one  when  his  literary  career  was  just  unfolding  it- 
self. And  yet  it  is  not  strange,  for  there  is  a  natural 
limit  to  human  endurance.  He  practiced  dentistry 
during  the  day  and  did  all  of  his  writing  at  night — 
producing  seven  books  in  the  brief  period  of  eight 
years.  He  was  not  very  strong,  and  this  double 
duty  soon  sapped  his  strength. 

In  his  auto-biography,  he  says:  ''Every  Novel 
may  have  a  happy  close,  but  a  Real  life's  story  has 
but  one  inevitable  ending — Death."  His  was  a  "real 
life's  story"  and  it  had  an  early  "inevitable  ending." 

Mrs.  Wilbur  Teeters,  reviewing  his  writings 
in  the  "Iowa  Alumnus,"  says :  "Dr.  Lillibridge's  field 
of  romance  was  his  own.  Others  have  told  of  the 
Western  mountains  and  pictured  the  great  desert  of 
the  Southwest,  but  none  has  painted  with  so  master- 
ful a  hand  the  great  prairies  of  the  Northwest, 
shown  the  lavish  hand  with  which  Nature  pours  out 
her  gifts  upon  the  pioneer,  and  again  the  calm 
cruelty  with  which  she  effaces  him.  In  the  midst 
of  these  scenes  his  actors  played  their  parts  and 
there  he  played  his  own  part,  clean  in  life  and 
thought,  a  man  to  the  last." 


254  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

His  first  novel,  "Ben  Blair,"  published  in  1905, 
brought  him  national  fame  as  an  author.  This  book 
has  now  been  dramatized  by  a  motion  picture  pro- 
ducer. He  followed  this  in  1907  with  "Where  the 
Trail  Divides,"  and  in  1908  with  two  more  novels, 
"The  Dissolving  Circle"  and  "The  Quest  Eternal." 
The  year  1909  saw  his  "Dominant  Dollar"  appear. 
After  his  death,  A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.,  of  Chicago, 
wrote  his  widow  to  ascertain  if  he  had  left  any  un- 
published manuscripts.  She  found  and  submitted 
to  them  his  "Quercus  Alba"  which  they  published  in 
1910,  and  his  "Breath  of  the  Prairie,"  which  they 
brought  out  in  1911. 

One  is  led  to  ponder  meditatingly  over  the  fact 
that  Charles  Bracy  Lawton,  one  of  our  ablest  poets, 
should  have  met  his  fate  at  thirty-two  years  of  age ; 
that  Mrs.  Tatro,  the  state's  leading  poetess,  to  date, 
should  have  died  at  forty-eight;  that  Will  Sterling, 
the  finest  natural  orator  the  state  has  produced, 
should  have  passed  away  at  thirty-four,  and  that 
Lillibridge  should  have  answered  the  final  summons 
at  thirty-one.  It  will  always  be  regretted  by  stu- 
dents of  our  state  literature  that  these  four  promis- 
ing careers  could  not  have  reached  their  full  ma- 
turity ;  yet  each  of  them,  in  turn,  lived  long  enough 
and  wrote  a  sufficient  amount  to  make  us  their  last- 
ing beneficiaries. 

Not  alone  to  the  white  race  within  our  state  has 
been  given  the  privilege  of  developing  our  fiction. 
The  Black  man  has  also  done  his  share.  Two  splendid 


PROSE  WRITERS  255 

novels  by  Oscar  Micheaux  (Me-show),  a  young 
negro  from  Gregory  county,  and  a  graduate  of 
Tuskeegee  Institute,  are  now  widely  read.  The  first 
is  his  "Conquest,"  a  charming  love  story.  His  latest 
effort  is  "The  Forged  Note."  This  latter  book  deals 
with  the  negro  conditions  of  the  south.  It  is  a  mas- 
sive volume  of  521  pages,  elaborately  illustrated. 

A  new  novel  that  put  in  its  appearance  in  1915 
is  "The  Boy  From  ReifeFs  Ranch,"  by  Rev.  J.  S. 
Ellis,  of  Conde. 

Other  good  novels  by  South  Dakotans — all  old 
but  valuable  and  delightful  reading,  are : 

Thomas  A.  Stubbins,  "The  Patriot." 

Eva  Dye,  "The  Conquest." 

Stella  Gilman,  "That  Dakota  Girl,"  and  a 
"Gumbo  Lilly." 

Gov.  G.  A.  Pierce,  "A  Dangerous  Woman." 

Mrs.  Douglas,  "Beryl,  or  the  Silent  Partner." 

S.  E.  White,  "The  Westerners." 

Eleanor  Gates,  "The  Biography  of  a  Prairie 
Girl,"  "The  Plow  Woman." 

H.  A.  Rodee,  "The  Prairie  Patriot." 

HISTORIANS 

No  literature  of  any  state  could  be  complete  with- 
out making  suitable  mention  of  its  historians.  They 
divide  themselves  into  two  classes:  Historians, 
proper,  and  Biographers. 

In  the  early  years  of  the  present  century,  Mose 
K.  Armstrong  published  an  elaborate  history  of 


256  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

South  Dakota  in  Territorial  days.  It  is  a  massive 
volume,  beautifully  illustrated,  and  considered  very 
accurate  by  competent  critics.  Two  other  small 
volumes  also  appeared :  one  by  G.  A.  Bachelder  and 
one  by  James  Foster.  Numerous  other  small  books 
and  pamphlets  appeared,  giving  mostly  the  history 
of  some  important  event,  or  of  some  particular  sec- 
tion of  the  state,  but  nothing  definite  and  general 
in  its  character  was  done  until  Hon.  Doane  Robin- 
son, our  state  historian,  brought  out  his  "History  of 
South  Dakota  from  its  Earliest  Times,"  in  1900. 
The  law  of  the  state  was  promptly  changed  and  an 
examination  in  South  Dakota  history,  as  well  as 
U.  S.  history,  was  demanded  of  eighth  grade  gradu- 
ates and  of  applicants  for  teachers'  certificates.  A 
course  in  South  Dakota  history  was  inserted  in  the 
state  Course  of  Study  for  common  schools.  Robin- 
son's book  was  made  the  text  for  practically  the 
whole  state.  Renewed  interest  in  our  state  history 
promptly  followed.  In  1904,  Robinson's  "Complete 
History  of  South  Dakota"  (2  volumes)  appeared. 
This  was  followed  in  1905  by  his  "Brief  History  of 
South  Dakota."  In  1907,  Prof.  R.  F.  Kerr  revised 
Robinson's  "History  of  South  Dakota  from  Its 
Earliest  Times,"  and  the  Educator  Supply  Co.,  of 
Mitchell,  brought  out  a  new  edition  of  it.  However, 
in  1912,  Frank  L.  Ransom  published  a  new  school 
history  of  South  Dakota,  called  "The  Sunshine 
State." 


PROSE  WRITERS  257 

Subsequent  to  these  former  efforts,  Hon.  George 
Kingsbury,  of  Yankton,  and  Professor  G.  M. 
Smith,  of  Vermillion,  in  1915,  placed  upon  the 
market  an  elaborate  five- volume  history  of  the  state. 
The  first  three  volumes,  covering  the  territorial 
history  of  the  commonwealth,  were  written  by 
Kingsbury ;  the  last  two  volumes,  covering  our  state 
history,  were  written  by  Smith.  This  is  by  far  the 
most  complete  and  authentic  history  of  the  state 
that  has  appeared  to  date. 

In  addition  to  these  histories,  the  history  of 
every  church  and  religious  denomination  operating 
in  the  state,  has  been  written  by  some  prominent 
member  of  each  particular  organization.  It  is  use- 
less to  enumerate  these.  Copies  of  each  of  them  are 
on  file  in  the  Department  of  History  where  access 
to  them  may  be  had  at  any  time  by  interested  parties. 

Attorney  Charles  DeLand,  of  Pierre,  has  earned 
prominent  mention  as  an  historical  writer  of  certain 
expeditions,  and  of  special  events.  His  contributions 
to  the  state  Historical  Reports  are  among  the  best 
productions  of  the  kind.  His  "Errors  in  the  Trial  of 
Jesus,"  is  more  historical  than  biographical  in  its 
nature. 

Attorney  N.  J.  Dunham,  of  Mitchell,  has  written 
a  history  of  Jerauld  County  and  one  of  Davison 
County.  Likewise,  D.  R.  Bailey  has  written  one  of 
Minnehaha  county.  General  Conklin  has  written 
one  of  Clark  county,  but  it  has  never  been  published, 
except  in  newspaper  form. 


258  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

A  "History  of  the  French  Revolution,"  in  two 
volumes,  is  being  prepared  by  Dr.  Christophelsmeir, 
of  the  State  University,  and  will  be  commented  upon 
in  the  next  edition  of  this  book. 

BIOGRAPHERS 

One  of  the  earliest  biographies  to  appear  in  the 
state,  was  the  "Memoirs  of  William  B.  Sterling,"  by 
the  Honorable  Coe  I.  Crawford.  It  is  a  large  volume, 
bound  in  half  leather,  stamped  in  gold,  and  contains 
a  steel-plate  engraving  of  Mr.  Sterling.  Over  half 
of  the  book  is  devoted  to  Sterling's  speeches ;  the  rest 
is  given  to  the  speeches  that  were  made  in  his  honor 
at  the  time  of  his  death. 

Much  of  Doane  Robinson's  two  volumes  of 
South  Dakota  history,  published  by  Bowen  &  Co., 
is  given  to  short  biographies.  The  same  thing  is 
true  in  Kingsbury's  history — the  last  two  volumes, 
bearing  on  state  history,  being  devoted  largely  to 
biography. 

In  this  field,  one  of  the  very  strongest  books  that 
has  appeared  is  "Joseph  Ward  of  Dakota."  It  is 
from  the  pen  of  Professor  George  H.  Durand,  in- 
structor in  English  at  Yankton  college.  The  manu- 
script was  prepared  originally  to  be  embodied  in 
the  state  Historical  Reports,  but  it  assumed  such 
proportions  and  had  woven  into  it  so  much  vital 
state  and  church  history  that  it  was  finally  decided 
to  publish  it  in  book  form.  It  is  a  volume  of  252 
pages  from  The  Pilgrim  Press,  Boston.  The  bio- 


PROSE  WRITERS  259 

graphy  is  replete  as  to  detail.  It  begins  with  the 
history  of  Ward's  forebears  when  the  first  one 
landed  in  Massachusetts  in  1637  and  traces  his 
ancestry  on  down  through  the  succeeding  years  to 
the  birth  of  Joseph  Ward,  himself,  at  Perry  Center, 
N.  Y.,  May  5,  1838.  Of  his  ancestors  the  author 
says :  "They  form  a  noble  succession  of  strong  men — 
representatives,  magistrates,  builders  of  settlements, 
defenders  of  liberty,  founders  of  churches  and 
schools.  Their  record  is  a  type  of  victorious 
progress  of  Pilgrim  civilization."  And  then,  with 
reference  to  Dr.  Ward  he  says :  "And  Joseph  Ward 
in  his  character  and  life  work,  as  missionary,  pastor, 
educator,  and  statesman,  was  true  to  that  noble  in- 
heritance." The  book  compels  admiration  for  its 
choice  diction,  and  it  is  well  illustrated  throughout, 
making  it  a  good  piece  of  state  history. 

For  other  standard  biographies,  see  the 
Educator  Company's  list  of  publications  in  the  back 
part  of  this  book.  Hon.  Doane  Robinson,  in  his 
Historical  Reports,  keeps  the  field  of  biographies 
well  covered. 

JOURNALISM 

Journalists  divide  themselves  naturally  into  five 
classes  of  writers :  Political,  Religious,  Educational, 
Descriptive,  General.  Some  of  the  strongest  writers 
in  the  state  are  found  wholly  in  the  field  of  journal- 
ism. Usually,  newspaper  men  are  so  crowded  with 
work  that  they  become  careless  and  indifferent  as 


260  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

to  their  literary  style — argument  being  the  main 
thing  sought  by  them.  However,  there  are,  and 
have  been,  some  notable  exceptions. 

Our  strongest  Political  editors  are  Charles  M. 
Day,  of  the  Sioux  Falls  Daily  Argus,Leader ;  Wheeler 
S.  Bowen,  of  the  Huronite ;  F.  J.  Cory,  of  the  Water- 
town  Saturday  News  (formerly  editor  of  Public 
Opinion)  ;  Mark  M.  Bennett,  of  the  Yankton 
Herald ;  J.  S.  Sanders,  of  the  Aberdeen  Daily  News ; 
J.  F.  Halladay,  of  the  Iroquois  Chief;  Clate  Tinan, 
of  the  Kimball  Graphic;  W.  R.  Ronald,  of  the 
Mitchell  Daily  Republican;  E.  B.  Yule,  of  the  Alex- 
andria Herald;  Mrs.  Nana  Gilbert,  of  the  Salem 
Pioneer  Register ;  E.  S.  Danforth,  of  the  Vermillion 
Republican;  and  I.  D.  Aldrich,  of  the  Big  Stone 
Headlight.  Three  prominent  political  writers  have 
retired.  They  are  E.  H.  Willey  of  the  Vermillion  Re- 
publican, John  Longstaff,  of  the  Huronite,  and 
O.  M.  Osbon,  of  the  Howard  Spirit.  Several  have 
died,  among  them  being  N.  C.  Nash,  of  the  Canton 
News;  S.  J.  Conklin,  of  Conklin's  Dakotian,  and 
Arthur  Linn,  of  the  Canton  Leader. 

As  a  Religious  writer,  Rev.  J.  A.  Derome,  as- 
sociate editor  of  the  Sioux  Falls  Daily  Argus-Leader, 
is  making  a  record  for  himself.  He  edits  the  "Week- 
ly Meditation"  which  has  appeared  each  Saturday 
in  that  paper  for  several  years.  These  are  the  most 
learned  treatises  on  the  Bible  and  the  history  of 
religious  songs  that  have  ever  appeared  in  the  state ; 
in  fact,  they  take  rank  with  anything  of  that  char- 


PROSE  WRITERS  261 

acter  that  has  been  produced  throughout  the  nation. 

Dean  C.  M.  Young  (deceased)  and  Prof.  George 
M.  Smith,  formerly  editors  of  the  South  Dakota 
Educator,  a  monthly  educational  journal,  are  the  two 
men  to  date  who  have  made  records  for  themselves 
as  Educational  writers. 

For  keen,  vivid,  effective  Description,  one's 
mind  turns  intuitively  to  Osbon,  formerly  editor  of 
the  Howard  Spirit.  The  following  clipping  is  taken 
from  an  old  copy  of  the  paper: 

WAITING  FOR  TAPS 

There  is  not  a  more  pathetic  sight  than  the  row  of  bent, 
gray-haired  old  men  sitting  on  the  veranda  of  our  national 
soldiers'  home  waiting  for  the  last  bugle  call  to  the  muster 
of  death.  They  are  not  the  ones  you  would  have  marked, 
could  you  have  seen  them  five  and  forty  years  ago,  as  the 
idlers  of  the  earth.  Bright,  alert,  quick  of  step  and  keen  of 
eye,  they  were  the  boys  you  would  have  chosen  to  do  things. 
And  they  did  things — things  that  brought  them  to  this  com- 
plexion— while  their  neighbors,  who  looked  the  heirs  ap- 
parent of  helpless,  hopeless  senility,  stayed  at  home  and  stole 
the  millions  which  make  them  "our  distinguished  townsmen" 
of  today  out  of  the  wormy  hardtack  and  measly  pork  they 
fed  to  these  heroes. 

Thank  God,  all  of  us,  that  Sheridan's  troopers,  turning 
back  the  tide  of  defeat  at  Winchester;  Meade's  heroes,  stand- 
ing in  the  whirlwind  of  death  as  solid  as  the  granite  walls 
of  Little  Round  Top,  and  Grant's  gallants,  tightening  the 
coils  of  death  about  the  neck  of  treason  at  Vicksburg,  could 
not  look  forward  and  see  themselves  as  we  see  them  today. 
Thank  God  the  future  was  hidden  from  him;  else  the  arm 
that  bore  the  starry  banner  up  Lookout's  rugged  heights;  the 


262  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

hand  that  flashed  the  saber  "from  Atlanta  to  the  sea,"  would 
have  fallen,  palsied  at  the  sickening  sight.  They  won  a 
nation  and  redeemed  a  race — and  saved  for  themselves  a  few 
years  of  cold  charity  in  a  semiprison. 

And  there  they  sit,  helpless,  hopeless  misanthropes,  the 
milk  of  human  kindness  soured  by  disappointment,  racked 
with  pain,  bent  and  distorted  by  diseases  contracted  in  swamp 
or  prison  pen,  wrecked — some  of  them — by  vicious  habits 
contracted  in  those  four  years  of  unbridled  passion. 
And  others,  almost  the  saddest  of  all,  who  escaped 
the  touch  of  death  and  disease,  who  came  home  pure 
in  heart  and  clean  of  hand,  to  find  their  places  filled,  them- 
selves out  of  beat  with  the  onward  march  of  progress,  and 
who  have  trailed  through  life  in  the  rear  of  the  procession 
unable  to  catch  the  step.  In  the  sight  of  men  they  are 
failures,  but  before  the  most  high  their  lives  are  the  pascal 
lamb  sacrificed  on  freedom's  altar. 

And  there  they  sit  and  wait — for  what?  Think  of  it! 
Put  yourself  in  their  place.  Life  ended,  no  cheer,  no  child's 
prattle  in  their  ears,  no  love  in  their  lives,  no  hope,  no  future, 
no  present — only  a  dim,  shadowy  past,  already  forgotten  by 
half  the  world. 

Waiting  only  for  their  summons — "Lights  out!"  that  low, 
sad  requiem,  with  a  heart-break  in  every  note,  falling,  with 
increasing  frequency  on  their  dull,  old  ears. 

As  a  General  writer,  on  all  classes  of  subjects, 
Wheeler  S.  Bowen,  of  the  Daily  Huronite,  must  be 
given  recognition.  Following  is  a  fair  sample  of  his 
regular  daily  composition : 

MEMORIAL  DAY 

Through  so  many  years  of  prosperous  peace  has  the 
memorial  anniversary  in  honor  of  the  dead  of  the  Civil  War 
been  observed  that  the  event  has  become  as  well  established 
as  our  Christian  Sabbath.  As  the  swift  years  go  by,  in- 
creasing solemnity  is  attached  to  the  observances  of  each 


PROSE  WRITERS  263 

30th  of  May,  couched  though  they  are  in  the  forms  that  admit 
of  no  variation. 

It  is  far  away  now,  the  weary  march,  the  bristling  line, 
the  sputtering  fire,  the  roar  of  musketry,  the  boom  of  artil- 
lery, the  weird  cadence  of  flying  shells  and  the  hiss  of  the 
death  dealing  minnie,  the  sobbing  away  of  life,  the  moans,  the 
shrieks,  the  shouts  of  triumph,  the  groans  of  despair. 

So  far  away  and  covered  by  so  many  years  of  rising  and 
advancing  generations  that  the  life  of  today  knows  little  of 
the  significance  of  Memorial  Day  to  the  survivors  of  one  of 
the  world's  bloodiest  periods. 

And  the  appreciation  of  the  soldier  of  the  '60's  is  some- 
what dimmed,  for  he  has  lived  long  since  there  came  un- 
sought into  his  life  experiences  that  were  wrought  into  his 
soul  in  the  red-hot  crucible  of  war.  He  may  feel  that  he,  too, 
would  be  willing  to  lie  down  in  his  place  "on  fame's  eternal 
camping  ground,"  for  the  journey  is  becoming  a  weary  one 
and  the  thinned  column  drags  along  the  line  of  march. 

Today,  under  the  stars  that  were  saved  and  the  stripes 
that  wreathed  about  them,  all  over  the  loyal  portion  of  our 
land,  the  people  have  turned  their  thoughts  to  the  men  of  the 
sixties,  have  honored  them  as  they  will  again  on  each  re- 
curring 30th  of  May,  giving  the  present  the  glorious  lesson 
of  the  past,  that  the  future  may  be  saved  against  the  con- 
spiracies of  evil. 

Although  E.  H.  Willey  was  classed  as  a  political 
writer,  and  although  he  gained  wide  recognition  in 
that  field,  he  must  also  be  treated  among  the  general 
editorial  writers.  For  nearly  a  half  century,  he 
made  the  Vermillion  (Dakota)  Republican  one  of 
the  strongest  literary  weekly  newspapers  in  the 
state.  Willey  was  an  apprentice  lad.  He  never  at- 
tended school  a  day  in  his  life,  yet  through  sheer 


264  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

application  he  became  one  of  the  recognized  literary 
editors  of  the  state.  What  could  be  more  musical 
as  prose  than  the  following  paragraph,  taken  from 
his  lengthy  editorial  on  Senator  A.  B.  Kittredge,  at 
the  time  of  the  latter's  death  in  1910? 

Today  he  sleeps  in  the  village  cemetery  of  the  little  New 
Hampshire  town  of  Jaffrey,  but  his  memory  will  remain  as 
enduring"  as  the  granite  of  which  are  composed  the  encircling 
hills  that  will  keep  watch  above  his  place  of  rest.  For  happi- 
ly, and  most  surely,  his  work  in  every  way  was  a  credit  to  the 
state  of  his  nativity  as  well  as  to  that  of  his  adoption,  and 
the  honor  becomes  the  heritage  of  the  nation. 

SCIENTIFIC  WRITERS 

Under  the  head  of  Scientific  Writers,  must  come 
our  writers  of  science,  proper,  our  text  book  authors, 
aside  from  historians,  our  compilers  and  our 
critiques.  Hundreds  of  valuable  pamphlets,  bearing 
on  strictly  scientific  themes,  have  appeared  during 
the  past  thirty  years,  but  we  must  confine  ourselves 
as  far  as  possible  to  a  consideration  of  bound 
volumes.  To  delve  into  this  phase  of  our  literature 
merely  for  historical  purposes,  would  necessitate  the 
cataloging  herein  of  over  200  valuable  scientific 
pamphlets.  This  would  prove '  impractical  for  our 
purpose.  Again,  the  able  dissertations  of  the  men 
of  science  who  are  connected  with  the  faculties  of 
our  state  and  denominational  institutions  of  higher 
education,  if  catalogued,  would  be  interesting,  but 
they  would  be  valueless  as  literature;  hence,  their 
omission. 


PROSE  WRITERS  265 

GEOLOGY 

The  Geology  of  the  state,  in  addition  to  the 
government  reports,  was  first  written  by  Professor 
Todd,  in  bulletin  form.  His  leading  works  are 
"Boulder  Mosaics  in  Dakota,"  and  "Moraine  of  South 
Eastern  South  Dakota."  Later,  the  regents  of  edu- 
cation authorized  Dr.  Cleophas  C.  O'Harra,  presi- 
dent of  the  School  of  Mines,  to  go  East  and  collect 
all  of  the  reports  on  the  Geology  of  the  Bad  Lands 
that  he  could  find,  and  to  condense  these  with  his 
own  investigation,  into  one  paper-bound  volume  at 
state  expense.  This  was  done,  and  so  we  have  a  com- 
plete record  of  that  interesting  region.  Dr.  O'Harra 
also  wrote  the  "Mineral  Wealth  of  the  Black  Hills." 
Dean  E.  C.  Perisho,  as  state  geologist,  gave  to  us  the 
following  reports : 

The  Geology  of  the  Rosebud  Reservation. 

The  Bad  Lands  of  South  Dakota. 

Bulletin  No.  5,  covering  the  geology  as  well  as 
the  geography  of  south  central  South  Dakota. 

Bulletin  No.  7,  covering  the  geology  and  the  geo- 
graphy of  northwestern  South  Dakota. 

Rock  Formations  of  South  Dakota. 

T.  H.  Lewis  has  given  to  us  pamphlet  6,  cover- 
ing the  "Boulder  Outline  in  Dakota."  With  all  of 
this  valuable  material  at  hand,  our  Geology  is  con- 
sidered quite  complete. 


266  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

MUSIC 

Instrumental 

While  the  words  to  vocal  music  might  profitably 
be  studied  under  the  head  of  Poetry,  yet  musical 
compositions,  on  the  whole,  must  be  considered  as 
scientific  productions.  It  would  not  be  feasible  to 
list  herein  all  of  the  instrumental  compositions  that 
have  been  produced  to  date  by  South  Dakota  com- 
posers, for  they  now  number  about  fifty.  Without 
showing  partiality,  special  mention  must  be  made 
of  the  "First  South  Dakota  Infantry  March,"  com- 
posed by  Frank  M.  Halstead,  leader  of  the  South 
Dakota  Infantry  band,  because  of  the  wide  recogni- 
tion which  this  composition  gained.  Then,  too, 
Carrie  E.  Stratton  has  excelled  in  sheet  music.  Her 
"Iroquois  Grand  March"  became  a  national  selection. 
Scarcely  less  popular  were  her  "McKinley's  Memor- 
ial March,"  and  her  "Frolic  of  the  Prairie  Chickens." 

However,  the  state  composer  who,  to  date,  has 
risen  into  a  field  wholly  his  own,  is  Dean  E.  W. 
Grabill,  head  of  the  College  of  Music,  University  of 
South  Dakota.  He  lives  in  music,  revels  in  it  and 
radiates  it  from  his  whole  being.  Not  only  has  he 
gained  recognition  at  home,  but  from  Canada  comes 
the  following  sonnet  written  to  him  by  the  popular 
Canadian  poet,  J.  D.  Logan,  and  published  by  the 
latter  in  his  volume  of  poems : 


PROSE  WRITERS  267 

DULCET  MELODIST 

(To  Ethelbert  Warren  Grabill — the  most  poetic  interpreter 
in  America  of  Chopin,  Grieg,  and  MacDowell.) 

DULCET  MELODIST  whose  fingers  kiss 

The  longing  keys  with  fondest  tenderness, 

What  soft  allurement  lies  in  thy  caress 

That  they  should  answer  with  the  thoughts  we  miss 

Of  love  ineffable?     Oh,  tell  me  this: — 

How  thou  dost  draw  from  seeming  nothingness 

The  unheard  love — complaints  that  burn  and  bless 

And  break  the  heart  with  bitterest  tears  of  bliss? 

Thou  utterest  soul-throbs   Chopin  made  us  hear, 

As  if  he  wept  again  upon  the  keys, 

MacDowelPs  plaint  and  Grieg's  immortal  Peer 

Who  never  knew  the  loneliness  of  peace: — 

Ah,  must  thine  own  heart  burn  with  love  like  these, 

When  thou  canst  bring  their  sweetest  art  so  near! 


Dean  Grabill's  piano  compositions  include  a 
number  of  mazurkas,  waltzes,  a  romance,  a  set  of 
album  leaves,  and  a  set  of  Cuban  Voudou  dances. 
He  has  composed  a  large  number  of  songs  for  solo 
voices,  including: 

Serenade  (Love  Wakes  and  Weeps),  words  by 
Sir  Walter  Scott. 

A  Song  of  Love,  words  by  Sidney  Lanier. 

Du  bist  wie  eine  Blume,  words  by  Heine. 

Come  Not  When  I  am  Dead,  words  by  Tennyson. 

Visitors,  words  by  Helen  May  Whitney. 

Lullaby,  to  original  words. 

Besides  these,  the  Dean  was  specially  commis- 
sioned by  Toronto  friends  of  J.  K.  Bathurst,  the 
Canadian  poet,  to  compose  the  music  to  the  latter's 


268  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

"Love's  Pilgrim,"  a  poem  of  singular  beauty  and 
power.  Grabill  has  also  written  Incidental  Music 
(songs  and  orchestra)  to  Goldsmith's  "She  Stoops 
To  Conquer,"  and  some  works  for  chorus,  including 
"My  Misery,"  to  original  words  in  negro  dialect. 

Vocal 

Our  vocal  selections  that  have  gained  recogni- 
tion and  for  which  music  has  been  written  are  not 
numerous.  "My  Pilot,"  by  Rollin  J.  Wells  (see  poets) 
has  been  set  to  music ;  has  had  a  good  sale,  and  has 
been  incorporated  in  a  church  hymnal. 

J.  W.  Coates,  of  Conde,  wrote  "The  Sunshine 
State,"  the  music  for  which  was  composed  by  Dean 
Grabill. 

President  Willis  E.  Johnson,  of  the  Aberdeen 
normal,  wrote  both  the  words  and  the  music  to  a 
song,  entitled  "South  Dakota,"  which  has  become 
popular  throughout  the  state. 

MONEY 

Our  money  problem  has  been  vividly  set  forth 
by  Hon.  H.  L.  Loucks  in  his  "New  Monetary  Sys- 
tem." A  companion  book  is  his  "Government  Owner- 
ship of  Railroads  and  Telegraph." 
RELIGION 

In  addition  to  the  "Weekly  Meditations"  (see 
Journalists),  by  Rev.  J.  A.  Derome,  consideration 
must  also  be  given  to  that  class  of  religious  writings 
which  have  been  preserved  in  book  form.  As  was 
stated  under  the  head  of  "Historians,"  we  cannot 


PROSE  WRITERS  269 

give  special  thought  to  the  able  religious  essays  and 
kindred  material  that  have  appeared  during  the 
past  thirty-five  years. 

We  have  from  the  pen  of  the  learned  Dr. 
Samuel  Weir,  who  for  seven  years  was  a  member  of 
the  faculty  of  Dakota  Wesleyan  University,  a  pon- 
derous volume  along  religious  lines,  entitled  "Chris- 
tianity as  a  Factor  in  Civilization."  Coupled  with 
this,  is  the  "Necessity  for  the  Christian  College,"  by 
Dr.  Thomas  Nicholson.  But  the  two  modern 
treatises  oh  religious  themes,  that  are  having  a  wide 
sale  are  the  works  of  Dr.  Craig  S.  Thorns,  of  Ver- 
million.  His  "Bible  Message  for  Modern  Manhood" 
struck  a  responsive  chord  in  modern  thought.  It 
was  followed  by.  his  "Workingman's  Christ"  which, 
if  possible,  is  proving  still  more  popular  than  his 
first  book. 

TEXT  BOOK  AUTHORS 

AGRICULTURE 

While  Eastern  men  have  been  preparing  texts 
along  the  line  of  agriculture,  to  meet  the  demand  for 
this  new  phase  of  industrial  education,  our  home 
authors  have  not  been  idle.  Arthur  A.  Brigham  has 
brought  out  his  large  volume,  "The  Progressive 
Poultry  Journal."  Professor  C.  Larsen  and  W. 
White  have  published  their  "Dairy  Technology ;"  and 
Larsen  and  McKay  are  the  joint  authors  of  "Prin- 
ciples and  Practice  of  Butter  Making."  Larsen  is 
also  the  author  of  "Exercises  in  Farm  Dairying." 


270  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

BOOKKEEPING 

A  large  volume  on  bookkeeping,  entitled  "Farm 
Accounting,"  written  by  Prof.  S.  D.  van  Benthuysen, 
is  in  press  at  this  time,  and  cannot  be  commented 
upon  intelligently  until  the  next  edition  of  this 
Literature  is  issued. 

CHEMISTRY 

Dr.  James  Henry  Shepard,  professor  of  Chem- 
istry, State  College,  Brookings,  has  written  the 
"Elements  of  Chemistry,"  a  "Brief  Course  in 
Chemistry,"  "Organic  Chemistry"  and  "Inorganic 
Chemistry,"  four  texts  that  are  used  extensively 
throughout  the  colleges  of  the  country. 

In  addition  to  Shepard's  books  there  have  been 
prepared  a  number  of  able  dissertations  on  this 
branch  of  science  by  leading  professors  of  the  state. 

CIVICS 

Our  Civics  writers  began  with  Smith  and 
Young  who  prepared  a  book  entitled  "The  State  and 
Nation."  This  was  followed  later  by  the  "History 
and  Government  of  South  Dakota,"  by  the  same 
authors.  It  is  one  of  the  standard  texts  of  the  state. 

J.  A.  Ross  wrote  a  brief  text  on  this  same  theme, 
entitled  "Ross'  Civics."  It  had  a  large  sale.  Later, 
Frank  L.  Ransom  re- wrote  and  enlarged  it  under  the 
title  "Civil  Government  of  South  Dakota  and  the 
United  States."  The  overhauling  was  so  complete 
that  it  entirely  obliterated  the  Ross  resemblance, 


PROSE  WRITERS  271 

and  made  a  new  book  of  it.    This  book  is  also  used 
extensively  in  the  schools  of  the  state. 

Under  the  title,  "South  Dakota,  a  Republic  of 
Friends,"  President  Willis  E.  Johnson,  of  the  Aber- 
deen normal,  brought  out  another  book  on  civics 
which  has  found  a  ready  sale,  not  only  as  a  text  on 
this  subject,  but  as  a  book  for  popular  reading  and 
for  reference,  as  well. 

ECONOMICS 

"Outlines  of  Elementary  Economics,"  H.  J.  Da- 
venport, a  280  page  volume. 

GEOGRAPHY 

The  first  book  of  Geography  to  appear  was  one 
written  by  General  Beadle  in  1888,  entitled  "Da- 
kota, Its  Geography  and  History." 

The  next  serious  attempt  was  that  of  President 
Willis  E.  Johnson  who  brought  out  his  "Mathema- 
tical Geography."  Although  this  book  does  not  treat 
especially  on  South  Dakota,  but  is  general  in  its 
character,  it  is,  nevertheless,  a  literary  production 
by  a  South  Dakota  author,  and  must  be  recognized. 
Johnson  also  wrote  the  South  Dakota  "Supplement" 
to  Frye's  standard  geographies. 

The  latest  text  on  this  subject,  however,  is  the 
"Geography  of  South  Dakota,"  by  Perisho  and 
Visher.  It  is  a  condensed  book,  well  adapted  to 
class-room  work. 


For  publishers  and  prices  on  South  Dakota  authors'  books,  see  catalog 
of  such  publications  in  the  back  part  of  this  book. 


272  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

GERMAN 

Under  this  head  comes  "Lessons  and  Views,  for 
Study  of  German  by  Conversational  Method,"  by 
Prof.  Geo.  M.  Smith. 

LAW 

The  subject  of  Law  will  also  be  treated  under 
the  subsequent  head  of  "Compilers."  However,  for 
our  purpose  here  we  must  confine  ourselves  to 
authors  of  text  books  on  this  theme.  The  man  who 
stands  near  the  head  of  the  list  is  H.  E.  Willis,  of 
Yankton,  who  has  given  to  us  two  valuable  texts  on 
law,  "Contracts"  and  "Damages."  Charles  E.  De- 
land  is  the  author  of  "Trial  Practice  and  Appellate 
Procedure,"  and  of  numerous  annotated  pamphlets 
on  special  phases  of  law,  such  as  Corporations  and 
other  kindred  themes.  Dean  McKusick,  of  the  Law 
School  of  our  state  university,  is  just  completing 
his  volume  on  "Negotiable  Instruments." 

LOGIC 

A  splendid  book  on  Logic  is  rapidly  being  com- 
pleted by  Dr.  Tollef  B.  Thompson.  No  doubt  it  will 
become  a  standard  text  in  the  schools  of  the  country. 

MATHEMATICS 

One  of  the  first  serious  attempts  at  Mathematics 
is  the  "Moad  Script  Number  Primer,"  written  by 
the  Moad  sisters  (Altha  and  Ethel)  and  made  to 
adapt  itself  to  the  number  work  for  the  primary 


PROSE  WRITERS  273 

grade,  as  outlined  in  the  state  course  of  study.  This 
is  soon  to  be  followed  by  Book  II,  covering  the  work 
of  the  second  and  third  grades. 

Another  mathematical  work  that  is  revolution- 
izing the  teaching  of  numerical  combinations  in  the 
grades  is  the  Guhin  Number  Method,  by  M.  M.  Gu- 
hin,  of  the  Aberdeen  Normal,  formerly  superintend- 
ent of  Brown  county.  It  is  an  arithmetical  chart 
which  does  away  with  the  old-time  multiplication 
tables.  A  manual  accompanies  the  chart. 

MEDICINE 

The  only  books  on  Medicine  which  we  have  been 
able  to  locate  for  examination  are:  "The  Obstetric 
Guide,"  by  Dr.  Robert  L.  Murdy,  of  Aberdeen,  and 
"Le  Bonne,"  by  Mrs.  Cassie  L.  Hoyt,  of  Ft.  Pierre. 

PEDAGOGY 

We  are  now  to  deal  with  a  mental  giant  in  the 
field  of  prose,  a  man  who  might  be  classified  as  a 
straight  scientific  writer  as  well  as  a  text-book 
author,  Dr.  W.  Franklin  Jones,  head  of  the  Depart- 
ment of  Education,  University  of  South  Dakota. 
The  president  of  a  board  of  trustees  of  a  certain  de- 
nominational school  once  wrote,  "An  education  that 
is  not  productive  is  not  vital."  In  this  sense  Jones' 
education  is  vital,  because  it  has  been  productive. 
To  date  he  has  written  and  published  two  books  and 
four  weighty  pamphlets. 

His  best  book  is  his  "Principles  of  Education." 
It  is  written  in  short,  choice,  model  sentences,  and 


274  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

is  used  as  a  text-book  on  pedagogy  by  a  large  number 
of  the  leading  colleges  and  universities  of  the 
country.  Two  paragraphs,  under  the  head  of  "Lit- 
erature," (Page  31)  will  suffice  to  give  both  his  style 
and  his  logic: 

We  have  seen  that  history  deals  with  realized  life,  and 
that  it  offers  us  the  richest  experiences  of  real  lives  of  the 
past,  in  the  hope  of  guiding  life  of  the  present.  Literature, 
on  the  other  hand,  deals  with  idealized  life,  life  that  never 
was,  just  as  literature  reveals  it;  hence,  it  is  to  our  immediate 
purpose  to  inquire  how  the  human  mind  comes  to  know  ideal 
life,  and  what  values  literature  seeks  to  reach  in  dealing  with 
such  life. 

Every  human  mind  is  moved  by  the  thoughts  of  its 
destiny.  What  a  man  is  to  become  is  a  matter  of  the  keenest 
interest  to  himself,  leading  him  to  struggle  for  what  he  be- 
lieves to  be  his  highest  good.  That  which  a  man  wills  to 
become  is  his  ideal,  or  unrealized,  or  universal  self.  That 
which  a  man  is  at  any  given  time  is  his  real,  or  realized,  self. 
There  are  two  selves,  then,  in  every  human  being,  a  real  and 
an  ideal.  This  is  a  basal  fact  in  education,  for  without  it 
there  could  be  no  education. 

Three  of  his  pamphlets  are:  "The  Vitality  of 
Teaching,"  a  paper  read  before  the  Association  of 
School  Executives  of  the  South  Dakota  Educational 
Association;  published  by  The  Psychological  Clinic 
Press,  Philadelphia,  Pa.,  and  later  republished  by  the 
Department  of  Public  Instruction,  Pierre,  S.  D. ;  "An 
Experimental  Critical  Study  of  the  Problem  of  Grad- 
ing and  Promotion,"  the  same  being  a  thesis  "sub- 
mitted in  partial  fulfillment  of  the  requirements  for 
the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Philosophy  in  the  Graduate 


PROSE  WRITERS  275 

School  of  New  York  University ;"  and  his  "Concrete 
Investigation  of  the  Material  of  English  Spelling," 
this  "investigation"  being  the  foundation  for  his 
famous  speller. 

Another  of  his  pamphlets — a  University  Bul- 
letin— entitled  "Handedness  in  Education,"  was 
published  in  1916  by  the  University  of  South  Dakota. 
It  is  the  result  of  an  investigation  covering  seven 
years  of  study  of  right  and  left  hands  and  arms.  The 
bulletin  sets  forth  the  significant  fact  that  its  con- 
clusions are  based  upon  the  exact  measurements  of 
10,000  pairs  of  hands  and  arms,  ranging  from  still- 
born children  to  centenarians. 

The  instrument  devised  for  making  accurate 
arm  measures,  and  called  the  "Brachiometer,"  is 
fully  described  in  the  bulletin,  so  that  teachers  and 
parents  may  use  the  instrument  freely.  Part  I  of 
the  study  shows : 

1.  How  we  may  determine  whether  a  child  is 
born  right  or  left  handed. 

2.  How  we  may  determine  whether  a  child 
has  really  adopted  the  right  or  the  left  arm. 

3.  How  we  may  know  the  child  that  has  shifted 
from  the  potentially  major  to  the  potentially  minor 
arm. 

In  addition  to  the  above,  a  summarizing  tabu- 
lum  is  given  which  reveals  the  significant  facts  that 
4  per  cent  of  the  race  are  born  left  handed,  and  96 
per  cent  right  handed ;  that  1  per  cent  of  either  right 
or  left  handers  are  shifted  to  the  minor  arm  by  ac- 


276  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

cident  (arm  injuries  in  early  childhood)  ;  that  77 
per  cent  of  all  born  left  handers  are  shifted  to  the 
right  arm  by  tradition  and  accident  combined ;  and 
that  one  child  out  of  25  adopts  the  wrong  (minor) 
arm. 

Having  discovered  accurate  means  of  determin- 
ing the  three  types  of  handedness  (right,  left,  trans- 
ferred) as  given  in  Part  I,  these  measures  have  been 
utilized  to  find  250  individuals  of  each  of  the  three 
types,  750  individuals  in  all,  and  these  individuals 
submitted  to  five  specific  skill  tests  to  ascertain  the 
results  of  shifting  a  child  from  the  major  to  the 
minor  arm.  These  tests,  fully  recorded  in  Part  II, 
clearly  show  that  the  pure  right  hander  and  the  pure 
left  hander  are  essentially  equal  in  hand  and  arm 
skill,  but  that  the  transferred  child  is  always  de- 
ficient— a  discovery  of  tremendous  importance  to 
education  in  the  day  when  labor  is  not  only  skilled 
'but  becoming  increasingly  skilled. 

In  addition  to  the  Jones  book,  Prof.  Geo.  M. 
Smith  and  Dr.  Clark  M.  Young,  are  the  joint-authors 
of  an  able  treatise  on  the  "Elements  of  Pedagogy,"  a 
book  that  has  now  been  in  use  as  a  text  on  education 
for  some  time. 

PSYCHOLOGY 

The  "Outlines  of  Psychology"  is  the  name  of  an 
unfinished  manuscript  being  prepared  by  Dr.  Tollef 
B.  Thompson.  It  will  be  published  during  1917. 


PROSE  WRITERS  277 

SPELLING 

Dr.  W.  Franklin  Jones,  after  making  his 
extensive  "Concrete  Investigation  of  the  Material  of 
English  Spelling,"  covering  a  period  of  several  years, 
has  had  published  his  "Child's  Own  Spelling  Book," 
which  is  revolutionizing  the  spelling  problem,  not 
only  of  our  own  state  but  of  many  other  states  as 
well,  where  the  schools  are  now  using  them.  This 
is  the  only  text  of  this  character  that  has  been  pre- 
pared in  South  Dakota. 

TYPEWRITING 

"The  Sentence  Method  of  Touch  Typewriting," 
is  the  title  to  a  book  on  this  subject,  prepared  by 
Prof.  S.  D.  van  Benthuysen,  of  Mitchell,  and  used 
extensively  by  commercial  schools  throughout  the 
entire  Northwest. 

COMPILERS 

In  1877,  the  "Codes  of  Dakota"  were  prepared 
by  Peter  C.  Shannon,  Granville  Bennett  and  Bartlett 
Tripp.  They  were  written  for  the  committee  by 
General  Beadle.  Although  they  are  a  compilation, 
yet  there  is  much  original  matter  in  them.  Ten 
years  later,  E.  W.  Caldwell  and  C.  H.  Price  compiled 
the  laws  of  the  territory  to  date.  In  1899,  Gran- 
tham's  "Codes  of  South  Dakota"  appeared.  This 
was  followed  in  1903  by  the  "Revised  Codes  of  South 
Dakota,"  prepared  by  Bartlett  Tripp,  G.  C.  Moody 
and  James  Brown. 

The  earliest  manual  covering  the  practice  in 
Justices'  court  was  prepared  by  A.  B.  Melville,  of  the 


278  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Beadle  county  bar.  It  is  entitled  "The  Dakota 
Justice,  Civil  and  Criminal." 

Immediately  after  the  close  of  the  Spanish- 
American  war,  Col.  Robert  Stewart  compiled  the 
Military  Codes  of  the  state. 

Another  compilation  is  the  "Brand  Book  of 
South  Dakota,"  prepared  by  John  Hayes,  of  Ft. 
Pierre. 

Just  from  press  is  a  new  volume  entitled  "A 
Book  of  Quotations/'  consisting  of  over  1,200  ex- 
cerpts from  standard  authors,  including  a  few  South 
Dakota  writers,  classified  under  fifty-eight  distinct 
headings,  prepared  by  Mrs.  Ida  P.  Ransom.  The 
quotations  are  general  and  are  intended  for  both 
home  and  school  use. 

CRITIQUES 

One  of  the  earliest  critiques  made  in  conjunction 
with  our  state  literature  was  that  of  James  Realf  in 
the  Arena  Magazine  of  May,  1895,  on  Doane  Robin- 
son, "A  Poet  of  the  Northwest."  This  is  a  technical 
study  of  Robinson's  verse.  The  next  year,  Henry  W. 
Austin  wrote  a  critique  of  Robinson's  verse  in  The 
Bookman. 

The  heaviest  critique  made  within  the  state  is 
one  by  Dr.  Tollef  B.  Thompson,  professor  of  Philos- 
ophy in  our  State  University  at  Vermillion,  on 
Ibsen's  last  book,  entitled  "When  We  Dead  Awaken." 
This  critique  is  in  the  form  of  a  lecture,  delivered  by 
Thompson  before  the  faculty  and  students  of 


PROSE  WRITERS  279 

Chicago  University,  and  published  in  its  entirety  in 
the  1909  summer  number  of  Poet  Lore.  In  taking 
his  general  bearings  preparatory  to  launching  upon 
his  special  theme,  Thompson  says : 

The  pointer  spreads  his  ideal  conception  upon  the  surface 
of  his  canvas.  The  artistic  photographer  catches  his  object 
on  the  ground  glass  and  transfers  it  to  his  plate;  but  Ibsen, 
like  the  sculptor,  preserves  the  original  objact,  the  ground- 
glass  image  and  all  in  crystal  form.  If  the  object,  or  rather 
if  the  group  of  moving  objects,  is  true  to  life,  and  if  the 
focus  on  the  general  principle  at  the  other  end  of  the  frustum 
is  clear  cut,  we  have  in  the  Ibsen  drama  a  piece  of  art  which 
can  be  purchased  for  the  price  of  a  book,  a  form  of  art  which 
is  capable  of  infinite  expansion,  while  the  definiteness  of  out- 
line may  be  traced  with  the  point  of  a  pin,  and  which  is 
perfect,  embodying  as  much  thought  and  feeling  as  can  be 
crowded  into  the  whole  phantasma  of  moving,  talking  objects 
at  the  base — aside  from  the  general  artistic  effect. 


This  brings  us  to  the  Epilogue.  It  was  written  in  1899, 
and  is  the  last  production  of  the  dramatist.  Some  of  you 
doubtless  remember  with  what  eager  anticipation  the  readers 
of  Ibsen  awaited  its  publication.  Many  feared  that  the  im- 
paired health  and  physical  decrepitude  of  the  dramatist  would 
not  permit  of  his  bringing  the  final  work  to  a  successful 
finish.  In  the  minds  of  most  of  these  Ibsen  was,  and  prob- 
ably is  today,  the  mystic  of  the  time.  "When  We  Dead 
Awaken"  promised  them  something  of  a  revelation.  To  some 
the  words  meant  "When  the  Clouds  of  Mysticism  have  Cleared 
Away."  Others  looked  for  an  elaboration  upon  the  final 
chapters  of  the  Bible,  or  an  effort  at  dramatization  of  Swe- 
denborg's  "Heaven  and  Hell."  This  latter  class  was  dis- 
appointed, and  the  former  remained  staring  in  blank  astonish- 
ment at  the  closed  covers,  not  knowing  whatfier  to  laugh  or 
weep. 


CHAPTER  III 

ORATORS  AND  ORATORY 

Quite  naturally,  the  orators  of  our  state  are  not 
found  wholly  within  one  profession,  nor  did  they 
come  from  any  one  line  of  endeavor.  Rather,  they 
are  found  in  all  walks  of  life.  In  other  words  our 
orators  have  made  their  livelihoods  in  various  fields 
of  action,  using  their  splendid  oratorical  talents  only 
on  special  occasions. 

The  Law  gave  to  us  Crawford,  Egan,  McFar- 
land,  and  Will  B.  Sterling  (deceased).  Education 
brought  forth  Perisho,  Harmon  and  Kemple.  Busi- 
ness added  Branson,  and  the  Military  gave  us 
Conklin,  while  the  Church  has  added  eloquent  men 
galore. 

To  read  about  an  orator  is  always  gratifying, 
but  real  inspiration — second  only  to  hearing  him — 
comes  from  studying  his  speeches,  or  at  least  copious 
extracts  from  them.  Well  may  we  profit  by  a  brief 
istudy  of  the  oratory  that  is  available  from  the 
gifted  men  of  our  state! 


O.  L.  Branson 

Biographical — Born,  Whiteside  county,  111.,  Feb.  3,  1861. 
Removed  to  Iowa  with  parents  in  1867.  Spent  youth  on 
farm.  Taught  school,  Carroll  county,  la.,  at  age  of  fifteen. 
Elected  principal  of  schools,  Arcadia,  la.,  at  eighteen. 
Cashier  Rawlin  County  Bank,  Atwood,  Kan.,  1885-87.  Or- 
ganized bank  of  his  own  at  Atwood  in  1887.  Admitted  to 
Kansas  bar.  Sold  out  in  four  years  and  moved  to  Olympia, 
Wash.  Three  years  later  removed  to  Osmond,  Neb.  Engaged 
in  banking  and  the  practice  of  law.  Sold  both  interests. 
Came  to  Mitchell,  South  Dakota,  Dec.  31,  1896.  Took  charge 
of  First  National  Bank  at  Mitchell.  Bought  the  controlling 
interest  of  institution  at  the  end  of  the  year.  Became  its 
president.  Sold  out  in  February,  1915.  Operating  farm 
loan  and  investment  company. 


0.  L.  BRANSON 

Among  the  universal  orators  of  our  state — that 
is,  those  whose  oratory  has  inspired,  and  been  in- 
spired by,  a  great  variety  of  occasions — none  have 
held  higher  rank  than  0.  L.  Branson,  of  Mitchell. 
Tall,  erect,  graceful ;  educated  first  for  a  teacher  and 
then  for  a  lawyer;  studying  and  practicing  mean- 
while for  a  public  speaker,  he  has,  through  his  own 
efforts,  become  one  of  the  foremost  orators  of  the 
west. 

Branson's  orations  and  his  forceful  delivery  of 
them  are  both  of  that  finished  character  that 
commands  universal  respect  and  brings  an  audience 
to  its  feet.  A  fair  example  of  his  inspiring  eloquence 
will  be  found  in  the  following  extracts  taken  from 
his  address  delivered  to  the  graduating  class  at 
Volga,  this  state,  in  May,  1905: 

I  always  feel  an  inspiration  on  an  occasion  of  this  kind 
that  I  never  experience  upon  any  other;  for  while  it  brings 
its  sorrow  in  a  measure,  because  from  this  time  forward 
those  who  are  graduating  here  are  expected  to  fight  the  battle 
of  life  for  themselves,  yet  I  never  stand  in  the  presence  of 
the  youth  of  our  land  but  what  I  feel  as  though  the  joyous 
hour  of  spring  is  here — 

"Mighty  nature  bounds  as  from  her  birth, 
"The  sun  is  in  the  heavens  and  life  on  the  earth; 
"Flowers  in  the  valley,  splendor  in  the  beam, 
"Health  on  the  gale,  and  freshness  in  the  stream." 


284  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Hail!  beautiful  morning  time,  when  to  these  young  men 
and  women  all  nature  seems  to  be  in  harmony.  The  golden 
sunlight  of  morning  is  resting  upon  the  horizon  and  shedding 
its  brilliant  rays  over  their  young  lives;  fresh  buds  are 
bursting,  song  birds  are  singing,  the  whole  Universe  is 
joining  in  that  glad  hallelujah  chorus — singing  to  the  angels 
beyond  the  stars;  and  what  message  shall  I  bring  to  them 
that  will  help  to  guide  them  in  the  great  journey  they  are 

soon  to  begin? 

*         *         *         *         * 

Then  too,  whatever  you  do,  do  well.  Don't  be  a  weakling; 
don't  be  a,  frittering  frailty;  but  in  everything  you  undertake, 
be  master  of  the  situation.  See  the  greatest  of  the  Roman 
senators  quietly  walking  down  the  aisle  of  the  Roman  senate, 
never  dreaming'  of  danger;  see  those  twenty-three  blades  of 
steel  pierce  his  flesh,  and  as  the  blood  flowed  from  twenty- 
three  wounds  his  soul  went  to  make  its  peace  with  the 
Great  Judge  in  Heaven.  The  angry  mob  that  gathered  about 
his  prostrate  form  demanded  justice  and  swore  vengeance 
upon  Brutus,  but  quietly  and  calmly  Mark  Antony  stood 
over  the  dead  body  of  Julius  Caesar,  master  of  the  situation. 

Hear  the  thunder  of  cannon  and  the  rattle  of  musketry 
upon  the  field  of  battle;  see  the  charge  and  countercharge  at 
the  point  of  the  bayonet,  and  finally  see  the  Union  forces  in 
disorderly  retreat.  But,  listen!  away  in  the  distance  I  hear 
the  clattering  of  hoofs,  and  finally  I  see  a  black  charger 
all  covered  with  foam  hurrying  to  the  scene  of  action,  and 
Phil  Sheridan  rides  up  the  Shenandoah,  master  of  the 
situation. 

Take  your  lesson  from  the  "thunderbolt  of  war."  More 
than  a  hundred  times  he  led  the  armies  of  France  to  victory. 
He  lowered  the  colors  "of  the  enemy  at  Austerlitz,  and  stood 
triumphant  in  the  face  of  shot  and  shell  at  Lodi  Bridge.  He 
led  his  conquering  heroes  to  the  summit  of  the  Alps  and 
carried  the  Eagles  of  France  to  victory  beyond  the  clouds. 
But,  in  an  unguarded  moment, 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  285 

"There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  there 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry," 

and  while  the  red  wine  flowed  and  the  merry  dance  went  on, 
the  Duke  of  Wellington  was  marshalling  the  forces  that 
carried  the  day  at  Waterloo;  and  the  pendulum  of  time  ceased 
to  swing  for  Napoleon  on  the  rock-bound  coast  of  St.  Helena. 


Once  more  we  catch  our  orator  in  a  different 
mood.  This  time,  with  his  silvery  tongue  inlaid  with 
"pearls  from  many  seas,"  we  see  him  standing  before 
a  joint-session  of  our  state  legislature,  sounding 
forth  the  praises  of  the  martyred  McKinley.  Space 
forbids  the  use  of  more  than  a  few  paragraphs  of 
this  able  eulogy: 

When  I  think  of  the  greatness  of  my  theme,  I  almost 
hesitate  at  the  thought  of  even  attempting  to  approach  it, 
but  when  I  think  of  his  splendid  character  that  shines  forth 
as  brilliantly  as  tne  lighthouse  that  marks  the  pathway  of 
the  mariner  at  the  midnight  hour,  I  am  inspired  to  go  forward 
and  do  my  duty;  not  because  I  believe  I  can  tell  the  story 
better,  not  because  I  believe  I  can  sing  his  praises  more 
sweetly,  but  because  I  believe  down  deep  in  my  heart  that 
some  of  the  most  beautiful  lessons  in  the  world's  history  are 
to  be  found  in  the  life  of  William  McKinley. 
***** 

In  June,  1896,  in  the  city  of  St.  Louis,  the  Republican 
National  Convention  was  held.  That  mighty  host  of  delegates 
from  every  state  in  the  Union  was  determined  to  bring  back 
to  our  country  that  confidence  and  prestige  that  seemed 
to  be  swiftly  departing  from  us.  They  called  for  a  leader; 
the  trumpets  were  sounding,  the  bugles  rang  forth;  and 
the  knightly  McKinley  came  forward  as  the  man  of  the  hour. 
His  spurs  had  already  been  won  in  the  halls  of  our  national 


286  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

congress,  and  the  voters  of  the  nation  were  quick  to  rally 
around  his  standard.  The  contest  came — one  of  the  fiercest 
that  has  ever  been  known  in  the  history  of  politics.  For 
days  and  weeks  two  great  political  parties  of  the  nation  were 
doing  battle  royal;  but  on  the  evening  of  election  day,  when 
the  smoke  of  battle  had  cleared  away,  it  was  found  that 
the  hosts  of  democracy  were  retreating,  and  the  victorious 
banner  of  the  republican  party  went  streaming  by. 

Was  there  ever  such  an  hour  as  that?  Have  you  ever 
stood  by  the  sea-shore  and  watched  the  ebbing  of  the  tide? 
the  receding  waters  drifting — drifting,  until  it  seemed  as 
though  they  were  gone  forever?  Then  the  change  comes. 
You  can  see  the  returning  waters,  the  sea-gulls,  the  canoe 
and  all  that  ride  upon  the  bosom;  of  the  mighty  deep,  come 
gliding  merrily  in  to  greet  the  sea-shore.  So  with  the 
condition  of  our  nation.  After  hope  had  fled  and  confidence 
had  gone  almost  forever,  the  incoming  tide  brought  us  the 
greatest  period  of  prosperity  ever  known  in  the  history  of 
our  country. 


THE  CLOSING  PART  OF  HIS  FOURTH  OF  JULY 
ADDRESS,  AT  SCOTLAND,  S.  D.,  1915 

But  we  have  cause  to  rejoice  today  greater  than  any  that 
has  come  to  us  since  that  great  day  when  the  heavens  rang 
with  those  sweet  chimes  in  '76.  We  rejoice  because  peace 
dwells  in  our  midst.  Today,  our  great  flag  is  speaking  as  it 
has  never  spoken  before,  to  a  hundred  million  people,  and 
is  carrying  its  own  appeal  to  the  nations  of  the  world. 
Everywhere  today  our  country  is  ablaze  with  the  glory  of 
the  American  flag.  From  every  city  and  every  hamlet  its 
bright  stars  are  twinkling  through  her  jeweled  diadem  and 
its  great  beams,  entwined  with  a  garland  made  from  a 
hundred  million  loving  hearts,  are  waving  our  messages  of 
sympathy  to  the  distressed  across  the  sea.  We  plead  for 
peace — not  because  we  are  a  nation  that  is  lacking  in  courage; 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  287 

for,  Sir,  numbered  among  our  gallant  hosts  are  ten  million 
patriotic  men  with  red  blood  running  through  their  veins — 
young,  gallant,  courageous,  energetic  men — men  who  have 
the  courage  to  bare  their  breasts  to  any  foe.  But  why  should 
we  send  them  forth  in  the  full  glory  of  their  young  manhood 
only  to  bring  them  home  again  as  cripples,  halt,  and  lame, 
and  weak,  and  blind,  and  their  garments  dripping  with  the 
blood  of  their  fellowmen?  O  America!  My  America! 
Beautiful  queen  of  the  empires  of  the  world!  Clad  in  your 
royal  robes  of  purity  and  peace  and  love  and  hope  and 
happiness,  lead  on:  on  through  the  dark  chasms  of  cruel  war, 
and  with  the  wails  of  heart-sick  mothers  ringing  in  your  ears, 
lead  the  way  to  that  great  court  that  will  insure  universal 
peace,  and  then — then  shall  the  people  of  the  world  come  forth 
with  their  hallelujahs  to  greet  your  coming,  and  "The 
nations  will  rise  up  and  call  you  blessed." 


MEMORIAL  DAY,  WHITE  LAKE  (closing). 

I  must  remind  you  today  that  time  is  fleeting.  Long 
ago  we  were  told  that  the  River  of  Time  is  a  wonderful  stream 
as  it  runs  through  the  realm  of  years.  It  is  ever  flowing  on 
and  on.  Today  we  hear  the  faint  rippling  of  its  waters. 
On  the  other  side,  I  hear  the  reveille  waking  up  the  blue 
battalions  that  have  gone  to  show  us  the  way.  Yes;  there 
I  see  the  great  leaders  of  our  country,  many  of  whom  are 
sleeping  in  Arlington,  and  the  tens  of  thousands  of  boys  who 
marched  in  the  ranks  and  whose  graves  are  wearing  garlands 
of  flowers  today,  all  marching  in  review  before  the  untold 
millions  who  have  gone  before.  Horses  bridled  and  bitted; 
flags  flying;  bands  playing,  and  at  the  head  of  the  procession 
upon  a  scroll  I  see  the  name  that  brings  a  picture  of  a 
shackled  race  set  free,  brought  from  out  the  ban  of  bondage 
to  the  joys  of  liberty. 

"And  Abraham  Lincoln  Leads  the   Way." 


288  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

On  this  side  of  the  River  I  see  all  who  are  left  of  the 
boys  in  blue,  journeying  toward  that  wonderful  stream. 
They  have  already  passed  by;  their  faces  are  turned  toward 
the  setting  sun.  In  the  distance  I  hear  them  faintly  singing: 

"I  am  a  pilgrim;  I  am  a  stranger. 

I  can  tarry,  I  can  tarry  but  a  night. 
Do  not  detain  me  for  I  am  going 

Where  the  fountains  are  flowing  ever  bright." 

Taps  are  sounding!     Boys   in   Blue,  farewell,  farewell! 

My  countrymen:  They  have  consecrated  to  our  keeping 
the  destinies  of  our  country;  and  what  will  your  answer  be? 
At  this  hour,  on  this  eventful  day,  for  you  I  pledge,  We  will 
never  desecrate  this  day!  As  the  years  come  and  the  years 
go  by,  on  each  Memorial  Day  we  will  cover  the  graves  of 
our  soldier  boys  with  beautiful  flowers.  We  will  remember 
the  Relief  Corps;  we  will  fire  our  salute  over  the  graves 
of  the  unknown  dead;  we  will  sing  anthems  for  the  dead  and 
speak  words  of  cheer  to  the  living;  we  will  protect  the  flag 
and  wherever  it  waves  we  will  know  its  colors  are  bright 
and  spotless;  we  will  remember  the  great  men  who  lead  our 
armies  in  battle;  we  will  remember  the  boys  who  marched 
in  the  ranks: 

"And   when   the   last   great  trumpet 

Shall  sound  the  reveille, 
And  all  the  blue  battalions 

March   up  from  land   and   sea; 
He  shall  awake  to  glory 

Who  sleeps  unknown  to  fame, 
And   with    Columbia's   bravest 

Will  answer  to  his  name." 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  289 

FROM  ELKS  MEMORIAL,  SIOUX  FALLS,  S.  D. 

We  meet  today  to  linger  for  a  while  around  the  memories 
of  the  departed.  We  draw  back  the  curtain  which  separates 
us  from  the  mistif ying  beyond  and  look  out  through  the 
mists  of  the  gray  dawn  to  those  battlements  where  many 
were  fighting  in  life's  greatest  battles,  who  today  are  not 
here  to  answer  roll-call.  Their  barque  has  drifted  to  the 
full  sea;  their  anchor  is  down,  and  for  them  the  tide  will 
come  in  no  more.  All  Elkdom  bows  today  in  solemn  medita- 
tion. At  this  hour  we  pay  our  loving  tribute  to  the  memories 
of  our  departed  brothers  who  in  life  gallantly  bore  the  emblem 
of  our  Order  and  who  in  death  calmly,  patiently,  willingly, 
took  up  their  journey  to  that  land  where  "shepherds  abide  in 
the  field." 

I  must  remind  you  today  that  this  life  at  best  is  fleeting. 
A  good  man  dies;  the  church  bells  toll;  the  curtains  are  drawn 
for  an  hour  in  our  places  of  business;  the  funeral  procession 
passes  by,  and  like  the  dropping  of  a  pebble  in  the  sea,  his 
place  is  soon  filled  and  the  world  moves  on. 
***** 

During  the  ordinary  life  of  man,  wonderful  things  have 
been  accomplished:  wonderful  things  by  nature;  wonderful 
things  by  man's  inventive  genius;  and  I  wonder  if  you  have 
ever  thought  of  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  all  the  world. 

I  well  remember  the  first  mountain  I  ever  saw.  It  was 
Pikes  Peak.  I  watched  it  tower  high  into  the  heavens,  and 
I  stood  at  its  base  and  beheld  its  grandeur  and  its  magni- 
tude, and  I  wanted  to  cry  out  in  the  joy  of  my  heart,  "This 
is  the  greatest  thing  in  all  the  world;"  but  it  is  not. 

Yonder  is  a  vessel  putting  out  to  sea.  The  good-byes 
are  said;  the  captain  is  on  the  bridge;  the  stoker,  at  his  post. 
Proudly  she  ploughs  the  mighty  deep  until  lost  to  view. 
Finally,  she  encounters  a  fog  and  is  unable  longer  to  mark 
her  pathway.  Another  vessel  is  approaching;  a  collision 
occurs;  the  ship  begins  to  shudder  and  tremble  and  is 


290  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

gradually  sinking.  All  is  excitement  on  board.  Laughter 
is  changed  to  cries  of  grief;  prayers  go  up  for  relief;  the 
great  pumps  are  unequal  to  the  task  and  the  vessel  is  going 
down;  but  just  at  the  last  moment  when  all  hope  seems  to 
have  fled  and  nothing  seems  to  await  all  on  board  but  a 
watery  grave,  a  shout  of  joy  is  heard — a  rescue  ship  is 
approaching  and  all  on  board  are  saved.  Wireless  telegraphy 
has  done  its  work.  Wonderful!  wonderful  invention!  but 
not  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  world. 

Hear  the  booming  of  cannon  and  the  rattle  of  musketry 
on  yonder  mountain  peak.  Hear  the  call  of  the  bugle  as  it 
rings  out  on  the  morning  air  and  rebounds  to  the  valley 
beyond.  See  the  hurrying  and  scurrying  of  men  in  action, 
climbing  from  crag  to  crag,  from  peak  to  peak;  and  you 
ask  me  what  it  is.  My  answer  is,  "It  is  the  mighty  Napoleon 
leading  his  army  and  carrying  the  flag  of  his  country  to 
victory  in  that  battle  beyond  the  clouds."  Wonderful  battle! 
but  not  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  world. 

On  yonder  hill-side,  overlooking  the  beautiful  city  of 
Florence,  is  a  building  peculiar  of  construction — ancient, 
weather-beaten,  auaint  and  old;  renowned  today  perhaps  only 
for  the  history  it  brings  to  mind  as  the  traveler  passes  by: 

"For  humanity  sweeps  onward; 

Where  today  the  martyr  stands, 
On  the  morrow  crouches  Judas 

With  the  silver  in  his  hands. 
Far  in  front  the  cross  stands  ready 

And  the  crackling  fagots  bum, 
While  the  hooting  mobs  of  yesterday 

In  silent  awe  return 
To  glean  up  the  scattered  ashes 

Into  History's  golden  urn." 

It  is  the  home  of  Galileo,  the  illustrious  scientist.  It  is 
where  for  years  he  read  the  secrets  of  the  midnight  sky; 
where  he  solved  the  mysteries  of  the  universe.  It  is  where 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  291 

he  invented  the  telescope;  where  he  went  on  and  on  with 
his  research;  where  he  announced  to  the  world  that  that  great 
luminous  pathway  spanning-  the  heavens  is  in  reality  the 
pathway  of  innumerable  suns.  It  is  where,  while  yet  in  the 
zenith  of  his  career,  he  lost  his  vision,  and  in  that  condition 
traveled  the  melancholy  road  to  the  ending.  Upon  the  walls 
of  that  building  is  a  marble  bust  of  the  most  renowned 
scientist  of  his  day,  looking  down  from  its  pedestal  as  if  to 
tell  the  traveler  the  events  that  long  since  transpired. 
Wonderful  building!  wonderful  history!  but  not  the  most 
wonderful  thing  in  the  world. 

Over  yonder  is  the  much  talked  of  city  of  the  Caesars; — 
Rome,  the  eternal  city;  the  renowned  city  of  the  past,  where 
rolls  the  Tiber  and  where  history  also  has  been  made  brilliant 
in  years  gone  by.  Shades  of  Marcus  Aurelius,  of  Nero,  of 
Cicero,  of  Titus — Rome  the  Great,  where  thundered  the 
chariots  of  war  and  where  the  Gladiators  trooped  to  death. 
There,  Mark  Anthony  calmed  the  turbulent  mob  when 
Brutus'  dagger  felled  the  mighty  Caesar.  Wonderful  city! 
but  not  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  world. 

But  what  is  the  most  wonderful  thing  in  the  world? 
Come  with  me  and  I  will  show  you  what  it  is.  Come  to  that 
little  cottage  yonder  where  the  curtains  are  drawn  and  where 
the  lights  are  burning  low.  Tread  softly;  enter;  and  there, 
in  its  mother's  arms,  is  the  new-born  babe.  Life!  Life  is 
the  most  wonderful  thing  in  all  the  world! 
***** 

But  all  roads  lead  to  the  ending.  It  is  not  for  me  to 
even  discuss  the  mysteries  of  the  beyond.  That  is  a  question 
each  one  must  settle  for  himself.  I  only  know  we  part  at 
the  River  "where  stately  ships  go  on  to  their  haven  under  the 
hill,"  and  it  is  that  parting  that  brings  sorrow  to  everyone's 
heart.  Many  of  us  are  approaching  that  hour  of  separation; 
we  have  passed  the  meridian  of  life  where  twilight  greets 
the  early  dawn;  springtime  is  gone;  summertime  has  passed 
away,  and  we  are  now  where  we  can  see  the  autumn  leaves 


292  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

falling.  The  sunset  is  beautiful — so  calm — so  serene;  its 
bright  golden  rays  reflecting  upon  the  western  sky  bespeak 
a  day  well  spent.  We  look  back  over  a  sweet  and  happy 
past,  and  we  see  scattered  along  our  pathway  friends  we 
loved  so  well: 

"Some  are  in  the  churchyard  laid; 

Some  sleep  beneath  the  sea, 
But  few  are  left  of  our  old  class 
Excepting  you  and  me. 

And  when  our  time  is  come,  Tom, 

And  we  are  called  to  go; 
I  hope  they'll  lay  us  where  we  played 

Just  twenty  years  ago." 


General  S.  J.  Conklin 

Biographical — Born,  Perm  Yan,  N.  Y.,  May  5,  1829.  At 
twelve  years  of  age  apprenticed  to  a  shoemaker.  At  eighteen 
completed  apprenticeship  and  entered  business  for  himself. 
Finally  learned  to  read.  Read  law  nights.  Admitted  to  N.  Y. 
bar,  1857.  Active  in  politics.  Helped  to  organize  the  Re- 
publican party  in  1856.  Joined  Union  army,  1862.  Com- 
missioned a  lientenant.  After  war,  internal  revenue  collector, 
Wisconsin,  three  years.  Spent  four  years  in  re-construction 
work;  headquarters,  New  Orleans.  Began  newspaper  work, 
Wisconsin.  Came  Dakota,  1879.  Established  "Conklin's 
Dakotaian"  at  Watertown.  Moved  to  Clark.  Practiced  law. 
Edited  paper.  Appointed  Adjutant-General  State  (now 
National)  Guards,  1901.  Djed,  Battle  Mountain  Sanitarium, 
Hot  Springs,  S.  D.,  1914. 


GEN.  S.  J.  CONKLIN 

For  scathing  sarcasm  and  bittery  irony,  General 
S.  J.  Conklin,  newspaper  man  and  attorney  at  law 
(deceased),  had  few  equals.  Although  many  of  his 
able  editorials  are  still  available  in  the  old  files  of 
his  paper,  yet  the  only  trace  of  his  speeches  that 
could  be  found  was  the  following  which  he  uttered 
as  a  young  attorney  in  court  at  Clark,  South  Dakota, 
in  pioneer  days :  • 

Nature  in  her  bountiful  munificence  has  provided  us  with 
a  safeguard  against  the  monsters  which  a  violation  of  her 
lawsf  has  brought  into  existence :  as  the  morning  light  in  the 
east  warns  us  of  the  coming  day,  and  the  darkness  at  noon- 
tide of  the  approaching;  storm;  so  nature  hangs  out  upon 
the  face  of  man  a  record  of  the  light  or  darkness  that  dwells 
within;  with  an  indelible  finger  she  traces  upon  the  features 
of  every  living  creature  of  our  race  the  history  of  their 
virtues  or  their  vices,  whether  the  man  is  to  be  loved  or  ad- 
mired or  detested;  advertises  to  the  world  whether  he  loves 
peace  or  contention;  whether  he  strews  the  highway  of  human 
life  with  flowers  or  with  thorns;  whether  he  lives  to  bless  or 
curse  his  race. 

Look  this  man  in  the  face  and  tell  me  whether  he 
makes  peace  or  trouble  in  this  world  of  ours.  Hatred,  revenge, 
and  all  the  evil  passions  which  language  can  express  hang 
out  in  bold  relief  from  every  feature  and  tell  you  why  he 
chose  darkness  rather  than  light  to  commence  this  prosecu- 
tion; why  he  crept  to  your  home  and  roused  you  from  your 
slumbers  at  mid-night  to  listen  to  his  perjured  deviltry.  Go 
to  the  seven-hilled  city  of  Rome,  that  summit  of  perfection 
in  art,  and  search  until  you  shall  find  the  most  accomplished 


296  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

delineator  upon  canvass  of  the  human  face  and  human 
character  that  the  art  world  can  furnish;  employ  him  to 
visit  all  the  great  commercial  centers  and  cities  of  the  known 
world,  and  require  him  to  descend  into  all  the  slums  and 
dens,  and  hells  of  vice  and  infamy  and  human  degradation, 
and  to  study  faithfully  the  lines  of  character  and  debauchery 
and  crime  chiseled  upon  the  human  face;  then  have  him  search 
out  the  condemned  felons  in  all  the  jails  and  penitentiaries 
of  the  civilized  world  and  study  with  care  every  shade  and 
shadow  of  the  emotions  and  passions  that  crime  traces  with 
indelible  characters  upon  the  features  of  its  victims,  from 
boyish  innocence  to  hardened  crime;  then  let  the  artist  repair 
to  his  studio  and  there  by  years  of  patient  toil  have  him  paint 
one  fiendish  face,  the  character  lines  of  which  shall  express 
all  that  is  low  and  vile  and  licentious  and  dishonest  and 
devilish  that  he  has  seen  and  studied  and  then  bring  that 
picture  here  breathing  from  every  outline  all  that  is  loath- 
some, inhuman,  dishonorable  and  infamous,  and  hang  it  upon 
the  wall  yonder  for  us  to  gaze  upon,  and  it  would  be  a  thing 
of  beauty,  a  paragon  of  lovelinesss  compared  with  the  face 
of  this  man. 


Senator  Coe  I.  Crawford 


Biographical — Born,  Allamakee  county,  Iowa,  January 
14,  1858.  Spent  boyhood  on  farm.  Attended  semi-graded 
school  at  Rossville  two  years.  Also  took  private  lessons 
under  Dr.  Simeon  H.  Drake.  Taught  school,  Ohio,  two  years. 
Sold  books  two  years.  Graduated  Law  School,  Iowa  City, 
Iowa,  1882.  Taught  again  for  a  short  time.  Junior  member 
law  firm,  Independence,  Iowa,  one  year.  Came  to  Dakota 
in  1884.  Settled  at  Pierre.  Practiced  law.  Elected  states 
attorney,  Hughes  county  in  1886.  Formed  law  partnership 
with  Chas.  E.  LeLand.  Elected  territorial  senate,  1888;  state 
senate,  in  1890.  Elected  Attorney  General  of  the  state  in 
1892;  served  four  years.  Defeated  for  congress  in  1896. 
Moved  to  Huron  in  1897.  Attorney  for  Northwestern  Rail- 
road Company.  Elected  governor  of  South  Dakota  in  1906. 
Elected  to  U.  S.  Senate  by  the  state  legislature  in  January, 
1909. 


SENATOR   COE   I.   CRAWFORD 

It  is  refreshing,  indeed,  to  study  an  orator  with 
such  a  range  of  speech  as  the  gifted  Coe  I.  Crawford. 
Some  orators  fail  in  effect  because  their  volubility 
exceeds  their  thought.  Not  so  with  Crawford !  His 
speeches  are  all  well  balanced. 

His  early  efforts  at  oratory  were  begun  while 
he  was  yet  a  law  student  at  Iowa  City;  in  fact,  he 
was  one  of  ten  orators  chosen,  out  of  a  class  of  130, 
by  the  faculty  of  the  law  school,  for  commencement 
honors.  Again,  in  his  early  law  practice,  just 
after  coming  to  Dakota,  he  soon  became  noted  for 
his  power  of  speech.  His  natural  inclination  toward 
politics  drew  him  early  into  numerous  campaigns, 
and  he  was  soon  heralded  as  the  ablest  stump 
speaker  in  the  state. 

Crawford  might  rightfully  be  styled  a  "born 
orator,"  for  he  can  rise  to  his  feet  without  a 
moment's  warning  and  make  a  model  extemporane- 
ous speech  on  almost  any  subject.  His  oratory  is 
always  exhilarating  and  effective.  Before  leaving 
the  U.  S.  Senate  he  filled  engagements  for  the 
Eastern  Empire  Lyceum  Bureau,  and  since  then 
he  has  done  lecturing  for  two  other  bureaus. 

Among  his  wide  range  of  speeches  that  have 
been  stenographed  from  time  to  time,  only  a  few 
extracts  can  be  given  in  a  work  of  this  kind.  Speak- 


300  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

ing  on  Attorney  William  B.  Sterling  (deceased),  at 
Huron  in  the  fall  of  1897,  he  said : 

Four  and  thirty  years  cover  the  brief  space  of  time  that 
our  friend  lived  upon  earth,  and  the  character  he  established, 
the  impression  he  left,  the  noble  words  he  uttered,  the  work 
he  did,  are  encompassed  by  these  years.  Indeed,  the  first 
twenty  of  the  thirty-four  belong  to  that  plastic  period  when 
the  world  guesses  what  the  future  of  the  boy  will  be,  but 
is  confined  to  prophecy  and  speculation.  The  cradle,  in  this 
case,  contained  a  favored  child.  The  genii  kissed  him  in  his 
slumbering  there,  and  left  their  imprint  upon  his  brow,  and 
in  his  heart,  and  upon  his  brain.  He  had  not  wealth,  except 
a  sound  mind  in  a  sound  body,  with  a  face  and  form  as  fair 
as  Alcibiades,  and  a  heart  as  true  and  noble  as  a  Washington. 


Upon  God's  everlasting  hills,  somewhere,  our  friend  still 
lives.  He  is  not  dead!  We  have  his  character  enshrined  in 
our  hearts,  and  years  and  years  hence,  when  South  Dakota 
is  old;  when  she  shall  have  become  one  of  the  very  pillars 
of  the  Republic,  with  archives,  laden  with  her  own  history, 
it  will  be  said  that  among  all  her  illustrious  citizens — among 
all  the  great  names  cherished  by  her  children — none  shine 
brighter,  none  with  more  fading  luster,  than  that  of  the 
brilliant  young  man  who  gave  his  years  to  her  service  in 
that  day  when  she  first  assumed  the  dignity  of  a  sovereign 
state. 

As  the  years  go  on  he  will  become  more  and  more  a 
picturesque  figure  in  the  history  of  this  state;  and  the  time 
will  come  when  his  name  will  be  as  inseparably  blended 
with  that  of  South  Dakota,  as  that  of  Henry  with  Virginia, 
or  Prentiss  with  Mississippi. 

***** 

The  block  of  Parian  marble,  under  the  mallet  and  chisel 
of  a  Phidias,  grew  into  all  the  grace  and  beauty  of  a  divine 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  301 

Apollo;  but  under  the  eye  and  special  direction  of  Genius, 
he  (Sterling)  took  the  warp  and  woof  into  his  own  hands, 
and  wove  them  into  a  rare  and  beautiful  character  and 
rounded  life.  We  love  that  Character.  It  still  lives.  It 
cannot  die! 


In  closing  his  great  speech  in  the  United  States 
Senate,  as  to  why  Senator  Lorimer  should  be  un- 
seated in  that  body,  he  said : 

White  says  that  when  Browne  paid  him  $850  "Lorimer 
money"  at  the  Briggs  House  in  Chicago  on  June  16,  1909,  he 
"had  a  belt  around  his  waist  that  was  made  of  blue  cloth  and 
pinned  on  with  safety  pins";  that  Browne  told  him  that  he 
carried  money  in  that  belt  and  that  he  had  $30,000  on  his 
person  the  day  before  (p.  81).  Whose  money  was  it?  What 
special  interests  were  using  money  so  lavishly  as  that  among 
members  of  the  Legislature  of  Illinois?  And  for  what  pur- 
pose? Was  it  to  strangle  legislation  at  Springfield  and  to 
send  a  representative  to  this  body?  People  in  these  days 
indulge  in  all  sorts  of  attacks  upon  Congress,  and  most  of 
the  attacks  are  both  unfair  and  unfounded.  Magazines 
cruelly  and  wantonly  assail  the  names  of  men  in  public  life 
who  are  above  reproach.  This  is  all  wrong.  I  have  no 
sympathy  with  it.  I  believe  that  a  very  great  majority  of  the 
men  in  official  life  today  are  faithful  servants  of  the  public. 
Character  and  reputation  should  not  be  wantonly  assailed. 
A  man  who  will  attempt,  out  of  malice,  to  destroy  the  good 
name  of  a  fellowman  is  no  better  than  a  murderer.  But 
whither  are  we  drifting  if  conditions  like  these  at  Springfield 
are  to  be  passed  over  in  silence?  We  may  make  mistakes  in 
framing  tariff  laws,  Mr.  President,  but  they  can  be  amended. 
We  may  adopt  wrong  policies  in  the  administration  of  public 
affairs,  but  they  can  be  corrected.  But,  sir,  what  is  the 
future  representative  government  if  men  are  to  enjoy  seats 
in  the  legislative  department  which  have  been  purchased  with 


302  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

paltry!  gold?  What  is  to  become  of  our  institutions  and  who 
can  answer  for  tomorrow  if  legislation  in  great  States  like 
Illinois  is  to  be  bought  and  sold  by  men  who  are  provided 
with  a  corruption  fund  for  that  purpose — a  United  States 
Senatorship  thrown  into  the  bargain?  Where  is  all  this  to 
end?  Is  all  sense  of  honor  benumbed  and  is  conscience  only 
a  myth?  Is  the  Senate  of  the  United  States  with  all  its 
traditions,  its  proud  sense  of  honor,  its  noble  dignity,  and  its 
lofty  standards,  to  forget  the  warnings  uttered  time  and 
again  in  this  historic  Chamber?  Are  the  voices  of  the  past, 
which  in  this  place  have  so  often  stirred  the  hearts  of  men 
and  the  supreme  faith  which  inspired  the  fathers  who 
wrought  here  to  be  overwhelmed  by  a  corrupt  and  sordid 
tendency  which  would  sacrifice  every  public  trust  upon  the 
altar  of  commercialism  and  make  a  thing  of  merchandise 
of  every  public  duty?  Are  the  Members  of  this  Senate  will- 
ing that  testimony  like  this,  which  I  have  attempted  to 
review  here,  shall  be  put  aside  as  insufficient  to  overthrow 
a  formal  certificate  of  election  simply  because  that  certificate 
comes  here  under  the  seal  of  a  great  State? 


TRIBUTE  TO  ABRAHAM  LINCOLN  PAID  BY  CRAWFORD 
IN  ONE  OF  HIS  CAMPAIGN  SPEECHES 

Nearly  three  generations  ago — in  the  back-woods  of 
"Old  Kentucky" — there  came  into  this  world  one  of  the 
rarest,  noblest  specimens  of  the  human  race.  Above  the 
cradle,  while  he  slept,  the  genii  came  and  lingered.  They 
left  the  imprint  of  the  immortelles  upon  his  brain  and  in  his 
heart.  In  a  rude  cabin  on  the  "dark  and  bloody  ground"- 
where  the  cries  of  Daniel  Boone  and  Simon  Kenton  had 
scarcely  died  away — and  in  the  wilderness  in  which  they 
fought  wild  beasts  and  wilder  savages — was  witnessed  the 
birth  of  Abraham  Lincoln — a  child  of  the  people. 

No  other  name  is  so  enshrined  in  the  hearts  of  his 
countrymen.  How  we  love  to  follow  his  career!  We  remember 
that  miles  and  miles  of  wilderness  and  mountain  lay  between 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  303 

this  boy  and  the  world,  east  of  the  Alleghanies,  where  Hamil- 
ton, Jefferson  and  Madison,  under  the  steadying  hand  of 
Washington,  had  introduced,  to  the  parliaments  of  the  world, 
the  American  Republic.  We  follow  him  to  those  remoter 
settlements  in  Indiana.  We  see  him  borrowing  every  book 
that  strayed  in  there,  and  watch  him  as  he  lies  at  night,  before 
the  fire-place,  pouring  over  its  pages  by  the  flickering  light 
of  burning  fagots.  We  see  the  glint  and  hear  the  sturdy 
blows  of  his  ax  in  the  crash  of  falling  trees  as  he  fells  the 
mighty  oaks  of  the  forest.  We  witness  those  tragedies  which 
bereft  him  of  mother,  sister,  sweetheart — tragedies  that  left 
upon  his  face  a  trace  of  grief  and  sadness  which  never  left 
it.  We  go  down  the  Mississippi  River  to  New  Orleans  with 
him  on  the  flatboat;  we  follow  him  to  the  Northwest  in  the 
Black  Hawk  Indian  war;  we  see  him  walking  twenty  miles 
from  New  Salem  to  Springfield  to  borrow  law-books;  reading 
Blackstone's  Commentaries  by  the  roadside;  we  go  with  him 
on  horse  back  over  the  circuit,  a  struggling  country  lawyer; 
we  see  him  in  Congress;  we  hear  his  clarion  voic.e  at 
Springfield  declaring  that  "this  Nation  can  not  exist  half 
slave  and  half  free."  We  are  present  at  his  debates  with 
Steven  A.  Douglass.  We  hear  the  eloquent  appeal  of  his 
first  Inaugural;  the  majestic  utterance  of  unyielding  resolu- 
tion and  righteous  wrath  in  his  second  Inaugural.  How 
we  love  him!  We  see  him  at  Gettysburg,  under  the  trees 
whose  trunks  and  branches  had  been  rent  and  torn  by  shot 
and  shell  a  few  days  before — standing  upon  a  vast  battle- 
field covered  by  countless  new-made  graves — the  personifica- 
tion of  consecrated  grief  and  patriotism — looking  into  the 
faces  of  a  great  multitude — with  an  epic  in  his  heart  which 
has  become  immortal;  we  hear  him  say  to  those  present 
and  to  their  countrymen  everywhere  in  all  the  land: 

"From  these  honored  dead  we  take  increased  devotion  to 
the  cause  for  which  they  gave  the  last  full  measure  of  de- 
votion; we  here  highly  resolve  that  the  dead  shall  not  have 
died  in  vain,  that  the  nation  shall,  under  God,  have  a  new 


304  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

birth,  of  freedom,  and  that  government  of  the  people,  by  the 
people,  and  for  the  people,  shall  not  perish  from  the  earth." 

Governor  Crawford  was  not  a  candidate  for  re- 
election in  1908,  but  sought  the  United  States  senate 
instead.  The  legislature  of  1909,  guided  by  the 
senatorial  primary  held  the  previous  June,  which 
Governor  Crawford  had  carried,  elected  him,  by  a 
unanimous  vote,  to  the  U.  S.  senate.  He  was  in  the 
office  of  his  successor,  Governor  Robert  S.  Vessey, 
turning  over  to  him  the  affairs  of  state,  when  a  joint 
committee,  appointed  by  the  two  houses  of  the  legis- 
lature, in  executive  session,  called  upon  him  to  noti- 
fy him,  officially,  of  his  election  and  to  escort  him 
to  the  house  of  representatives'  hall  to  speak.  He 
said: 
Gentlemen  of  the  Senate  and  House  cf  Representatives: 

It  is  impossible  for  me  to  express  in  words  the  emotions 
of  my  heart  at  this  time,  when  the  formal  record  which  you 
have  just  made  is  the  final  and  culminating  act  which  places 
in  my  hands  a  great  trust  and  imposes  upon  me  a  great  re- 
sponsibility, linked  with  the  most  distinguished  honor  which 
the  State  of  South  Dakota  can  bestow  upon  one  of  her 
citizens. 

For  the  fidelity  with  which  you  have  executed  the  com- 
mand given  by  the  people  of  the  state  under  the  law,  and  for 
the  personal  kindness  you  have  shown  to  me,  I  am  profoundly 
grateful. 

To  you  and  through  you  to  the  constituencies  you  repre- 
sent in  the  great  legislative  department  of  the  state,  and  to 
all  the  people  of  the  state,  who  have  thus  reposed  confidence 
in  me,  I  wish,  without  reference  to  party,  faction  or  creed, 
to  express  my  appreciation  of  the  signal  honor  thus  conferred. 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  305 

For  me,  this  moment  is  not  one  of  vain-glory  nor 
boastfulness,  but  mingled  with  the  feeling  of  gratitude  for 
the  confidence  and  the  honor  which  it  signifies,  is  a  feeling  of 
humility  and  of  deep  concern  lest  I  fail  to  meet  the  expecta- 
tions of  my  friends  and  the  demands  which  the  problems  of 
the  time  present  to  members  of  the  Senate  of  the  United 
States. 

I  am  not  unmindful  of  the  difficulties  I  shall  encounter, 
nor  of  the  strength  of  character,  the  vast  knowledge,  the 
wide  experience,  the  commanding  power,  and  the  vigor  of 
intellect  which  will  overshadow  my  limitations  in  the  great 
body  of  which,  if  I  live,  I  am  to  become  a  member. 

I  shall  not,  I  hope,  look  upon  this  position  as  the  goal 
at  which  all  effort  ends;  nor  as  a  pinnacle  from  which  it  will 
be  a  privilege  to  fold  one's  arms  and  look  down  upon  his 
fellow  mortals.  I  hope  it  may  prove  to  be  the  entrance  into 
a  field  for  larger  service  and  usefulness,  and  that  during  the 
time  it  is  my  privilege  to  serve  the  state,  the  keenesf  pleasure 
I  shall  experience  will  be  in  the  consciousness  that  I  am 
accomplishing  some  good  for  the  people  whom  I  serve,  and 
taking  a  humble  part  in  the  settlement  of  questions  of  mo- 
ment to  mankind. 

I  shall,  no  doubt,  be  misunderstood  at  times  and  mis- 
represented, perhaps,  but  I  wish  to  assure  you — whatever 
may  be  said  or  reported — that  always  the  underlying  pur- 
pose of  my  life  will  be  to  give  the  best  there  is  in  me  to  the 
public  service.  I  shall  make  mistakes,  and  there  will  be 
times,  doubtless,  when  what  seems  to  me  the  right  course  may 
appear  to  some  of  you  to  be  the  wrong  one,  but  you  will,  I 
am  sure,  be  generous  enough  to  believe  that  I  was  acting 
from  sincere  and  honest  motives  and  according  to  the  light 
my  conscience  and  judgment  give  to  me. 

In  the  campaigns  which  have  recently  swept  over  the 
state,  the  controversy  was  heated  and  some  bitterness  was 
engendered.  I  want  it  understood  here  and  now,  that  out  of 
the  storm  of  conflict,  I  bring  no  malice.  It  shall  be  my  pur- 


306  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

pose  to  work  for  all.  None  shall  have  cause  to  hesitate  to 
apply  at  any  and  all  times  to  me  for  such  aid  as  this  great 
office  may  enable  me  to  render  without  considerations  of 
partisanship  or  factionalism.  The  democrat  who  just  now 
recorded  his  vote  for  the  candidate  of  his  party,  and  the  re- 
publican who  opposed  me  before  and  at  the  primary,  are  con- 
stituents and  fellow  citizens,  entitled  to  my  services  as  a 
public  officer  as  fully  as  if  they  had  been  personal  sup- 
porters, and  in  so  far  as  I  am  capable  of  giving  it,  they  shall 
have  fair  and  just  consideration.  There  is  patriotism  and 
good  citizenship,  there  is  principle,  there  is  civic  virtue  in  the 
people  of  all  factions  and  parties,  and  when  it  comes  to  the 
obligations  of  official  duty,  those  obligations  extend  to  all 
without  regard  to  politics,  religion,  or  previous  condition  of 
servitude. 

I  cannot  leave  you  without  thanking  those  loyal  friends 
everywhere  throughout  the  state,  who  have  been  so  stead- 
fast through  evil,  as  well  as  through  good  report.  My  hope 
today  is  that  I  may  retain  their  confidence  and  merit  their 
approval  in  the  future. 

To  serve  one's  country;  to  be  at  all  times  true  to  one's 
convictions  of  duty;  to  serve  one's  fellows;  to  make  the  most 
of  one's  opportunities;  to  develop  the  best  of  which  one  is 
capable;  to  assist  in  pushing  forward  the  work  of  his  day 
and  generation;  to  cherish  and  uphold  as  the  cornerstone  of 
it  all,  the  family,  the  home  and  the  highest  ideals  of  the 
state — these  are  the  things  that  should,  and  which  I  believe, 
do  count  most  in  the  equation  of  life. 

My  service  can  be  of  aid  to  you  only  in  so  far  as  it  is 
dominated  by  a  desire  to  help  the  people  by  seeking  the 
greatest  good  to  the  greatest  number,  and  by  striving  always 
to  protect  and  to  defend  the  principle  that  all  men  are  equal 
before  the  law — rich  or  poor — high  or  low — black  or  white — 
low-born  or  well-born;  that  there  should  be  no  special  privi- 
lege in  civil  government;  that  all  should  be  held  to  the  same 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  307 

degree  of  accountability  before  the  law  without  fear  or  favor; 
because — in  the  language  of  the  civil  law — "Salus  Populi; 
Suprema  Lex" — the  public  welfare  is  the  highest  law. 

Again  pledging  you  fidelity  to  these  principles,  and 
thanking  you  one  and  all,  I  bid  you  good  bye  'till  we  meet 
again. 


George  W.  Egan 

Biographical— Born,  Bartlett,  Iowa,  Nov.  7,  1871..  Self- 
educated  until  he  grew  up.  Entered  Iowa  State  University 
in  fall  of  1896.  Took  B.  A.  degree  therefrom  in  1900;  LL.  B. 
in  1901;  LLM.  and  M.  A.  in  1903.  Married  Miss  Vernice 
Cochran,  of  Logan,  Iowa,  May  22,  1902.  Childless.  Practiced 
law,  Logan,  la.,  Aug.  15,  1901  to  Sept.  15,  1907,  when  he  re- 
moved to  South  Dakota  to  practice.  Brought  into  prominence 
by  Kaufmann  murder  trial.  Active  in  politics. 


GEORGE  W.  EGAN , 

Splendidly  endowed  by  nature  with  a  dramatic 
$tyle  of  oratory,  peculiarly  his  own,  George  W. 
Egan,  of  Sioux  Falls,  comes  to  the  foreground  for 
review,  and  really  goes  in  a  class  by  himself.  His 
English  flows  in  an  unbroken  stream  of  beautiful 
words.  This,  coupled  with  his  striking  personality 
and  his  vigorous,  dramatic  delivery,  gives  to  him  a 
wonderful  power  over  men  and  makes  him  a  com- 
plete master  of  the  platform. 

On  the  lecture  platform,  Egan  is  an  artist. 
No  speech  delivered  in  the  West  has  elicited  more 
universally  favorable  comment  than  his  scholarly 
lecture  on  "The  Trial  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth."  In 
,this  lecture  he  reviews  the  Mosaic  law  under  which 
Christ  was  tried  before  the  great  Sanhedrin  late  at 
night  on  April  6,  A.  D.  30,  and  the  Roman  Corpus 
Juris  Civilis  under  which  he  was  tried  early  the 
next  morning  before  Pontius  Pilate.  He  then  lays 
a  foundation  for  comparison  by  citing  the  trials  of 
Socrates  before  the  dicastry  of  Athens,  of  Warren 
Hastings,  of  Charles  the  First,  of  Mary  Stuart,  of 
Aaron  Burr  and  of  others;  and  then  he  declares: 
"These  were  indeed  great  and  momentous  trials,  and 
they  affected  deeply  the  people  of  their  day ;  but  they 
pale  into  insignificance  when  compared  with  that 


310  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

great  judicial  tragedy,  of  which  I  shall  speak  to  you 
tonight,  the  trial  and  execution  of  the  Gallilean 
peasant,  Jesus  of  Nazareth." 

Again,  speaking  of  Jesus,  he  says:  "He  was 
not  an  orator,  yet,  judged  from  every  viewpoint,  his 
germon  on  the  Mount  is  the  most  perfect  oration 
in  the  world.  He  was  not  a  painter.  Yet  he  in- 
spired every  picture  and  every  statue  that  today 
decorates  the  galleries  of  the  world." 

But  we  must  consider  Egan  from  the  standpoint 
of  an  attorney  and  an  orator  at  the  bar,  rather  than 
merely  a  lecturer,  for  it  is  before  a  jury  that  he  is 
always  at  his  best  and  pours  forth  his  most  im- 
passioned eloquence. 

The  speech  that  first  brought  him  into  promin- 
ence in  South  Dakota  was  his  closing  argument 
made  to  the  jury,  on  behalf  of  the  state,  in  the 
famous  Kaufmann  murder  trial  held  at  Flandreau 
in  May,  1907.  This  eloquent  speech  was  afterwards 
published  in  book  form  and  sold  to  lawyers  all  over 
the  northwest.  In  it  he  says,  in  part: 
May  it  please  the  Court,  and  you  gentlemen  of  the  jury: 

Your  solemn  countenances,  this  uncounted  assemblage  of 
anxious  people,  the  great  questions  to  be  here,  by  you,  deter- 
mined, suggest  beyond  the  power  of  language  to  describe  the 
solemnity  and  significance  of  this  occasion.  I  am  reminded 
as  I  rise  to  speak  to  you  in  this  momentous  hour  that  you 
are  all  strangers  to  me.  Your  faces  I  know  only  by  the 
common  image  that  we  all  bear  to  our  Maker.  Your  thoughts 
and  sentiments,  hopes  and  temperament,  I  know  only  as  I 
know  the  thoughts  and  sentiments,  the  hopes  and  tempera- 
ment of  our  common  nature.  But  we  are  not  totally  un- 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  311 

acquainted,  for  in  your  exalted  character  as  officers  of  this 
court  and  citizens  of  the  magnificent  commonwealth  of  South 
Dakota,  I  bear  you  a  passport  of  good-fellowship  and  a  letter 
ofj  introduction! 

***** 

Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  you  have  resting  upon  you  the 
highest  and  most  important  duty  that  the  state  can  ever 
delegate  to  its  citizens.  You  have  been  selected  by  the 
commonwealth  and  this  defendant  to  perform  a  most  high 
and  solemn  duty.  You  are  more  than  members  of  the  em- 
bodiment of  organized  society,  for  the  time  being,  deliberating 
upon  the  highest  and  most  solemn  of  all  issues. 
****** 

I  say  to  you,  gentlemen,  that  the  day  that  you  are  big 
enough  to  assume  a  grave  and  responsible  position  like  this 
and  discharge  your  full  duty  to  the  state  and  a  defendant, 
uninfluenced  by  sympathy,  passion  or  prejudice,  will  be  the 
proudest  day  of  your  lives,  and  you  can  count  time  from  that 
glad  hour,  as  peasants  do  from  holy  days,  as  maidens  do  from 

trysting  hours. 

***** 

I  have  been  in  mid-ocean  on  a  mighty  vessel  when  a 
storm  approached.  I  have  seen  the  lightning  flash  and  heard 
the  great  artillery  of  God.  I  have  seen  the  mighty  ship 
writhe  and  twist  and  felt  her  tremble  in  her  battle  with  the 
waves,  and  I  have  known  that  this  was  great.  I  have  gone 
far  down  into  the  earth  and  seen  its  treasures  and  listened 
to  the  voiceless  silence  of  its  mighty  depths  and  I  have  known 
that  this  was  great.  I  have  crossed  the  rugged  Alps,  and  in 
imagination's  fancy  saw  the  mighty  Hamilcar  and  heard  him 
swear  young  Hannibal  in  eternal  vengeance  against  his 
country's  foe,  and  I  have  known  that  this  was  great.  I  have 
crossed  vine-covered  France  into  sunny  Italy  to  ancient  Rome 
where  Catiline  conspired  and  Caesar  fought,  and,  standing  on 
the  ruins  where  Cicero  addressed  the  multitudes  beneath  the 


312  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Coliseum's  roofless  walls,  I  have  known  that  this  was  great. 
But  the  greatest  thing  I  have  ever  seen  and  the  grandest 
thing  this  side  of  the  throne  of  the  eternal  God,  is  an 
American  citizen  clothed  with  the  honor  of  the  law — inspired 
by  the  memory  of  his  fathers,  who  declared  that  "this  is  a 
government  of  laws  and  not  of  men",  sworn  to  do  his  duty 
and  doing  it  without  sympathy,  passion  or  prejudice,  too 
proud  to  wrong  a  defendant,  too  honest  to  deceive  the  state. 

***** 

Gentlemen,  they  read  to  you  from  story  books  and 
stretched  their  imagination  to  find  something  to  interest  you 
in  a  hope  to  lead  you  from  the  great  facts  of  this  case.  If 
you  will  bear  with  me,  I  will  tell  you  another  story.  I  will 
take  it  from  your  hearts  as  you  received  it  from  the  witness 
stand.  It  is  a  story  of  joy  and  sorrow,  of  grief  and  woe,  of 
pain  and  anguish,  of  cruel  torture,  as  sad  and  melancholy 
as  can  be  woven  from  the  "warp  and  woof  of  mystery  and 
death!"  As  I  stand  here  this  morning  I  am  carried  on 
imagination's  swift-flying  wings  to  the  far-off  land  of 
Austro-Hungary,  to  the  land  of  Louis  Kossuth,  the  Hungarian 
patriot,  and  there,  in  the  little  village  of  Bodersdorf,  I  see 
old  John  Polreis,  his  good,  old  simple  wife,  and  their  two 
little  girls.  In  their  humble  cottage  I  can  see  these  two 
girls — Elizabeth,  the  younger,  and  Agnes,  the  fairer  and 
stronger  child!  It  is  September,  1905.  The  father  has 're- 
ceived a  letter  from  the  older  sister,  who  lives  in  South 
Dakota.  She  urges  them  to  come!  The  old  father  takes  the 
hand  of  Elizabeth,  that  sweet,  simple  girl,  who  stood  before 
this  jury,  while  Agnes,  in  her  girlish  glee,  skips  on  before! 
I  can  see  them  as  they  come  down  "to  the  wharf  and  stand 
and  gaze  out  upon  the  sad  and  solemn  sea.  I  can  see  the 
tears  gather  in  his  eyes  as  he  thinks  to  leave  his  native  land, 
where  all  his  people  live,  or  are  numbered  with  the  dead. 
I  can  hear  the  little  songs,  the  Hungarian  sonnets,  that  the 
good  woman,  Mrs.  Grosse,  said  Agnes  sang  to  her  children 
every  day!  I  can  see  the  ships  come  gliding  in  from  every 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  313 

land,  and  hear  the  old  father  as  he  says  to  the  children,  "That 
ship  bears  the  flag  of  Spain,  across  whose  history  is  written 
the  bloody  page  of  the  Inquisition.  And  this  other  is  the  flag 
of  England,  who  stole  from  India  her  nationality  and  from 
Ireland  her  constitution  and  her  legislature!  And  this  ship 
bears  the  flag  of  France,  that  shiftless,  boasting  people,  who 
once  put  over  their  doors  that  hopeless  sentence,  'There  is  no 
God!' "  They  go  along  a  little  and  soon  they  see  kissing  the 
breeze  of  heaven  that  undying  emblem  of  charity,  liberty  and 
love,  the  Stars  and  Stripes.  And  the  old  man  says  to  his 
children,  "This  is  the  flag  of  the  country  to  which  we  shall 
soon  go,  where  the  beautiful  Goddess  of  Liberty  stands  in  the 
harbor  and  holds  aloft  a  torch  lighting  the  world,  welcoming 
all  people  from  all  countries  everywhere.  Though  we  belong 
to  the  third  estate,  though  in  our  veins  flows  the  blood  of 
centuries  of  grinding  and  submission,  there  shall  we  hold  up 
our  heads,  for  the  Stars  and  Stripes  shall  make  us  free, 
and  we  shall  know  equality  before  the  law!" 
***** 

Gentlemen  of  the  jury,  a  little  while  and  my  labors  shall 
have  ended  and  yours  will  have  begun!  We  stand  for  the 
law  and  demand  its  impartial  enforcement.  We  stand  for 
that  law  which  surrounds  each  of  us  when  first  we  breathe 
the  breath  of  life;  that  law  that  surrounds  and  guides  the 
infant  footsteps  at  the  mother's  side;  that  law  that  sustains 
and  maintains  the  rights  of  American  citizenship  in  the 
hour  of  manhood's  strength;  that  law  that  gives  security  to 
the  mother  at  the  hearthstone  and  the  babe  upon  her  knee; 
that  law  that  plants  the  star  of  hope  in  the  bosom  of  the 
weary  and  downtrodden  of  every  land.  Yes,  we  stand  for 
that  law  that  will  protect  and  support  each  of  you  and 
defend  you  against  the  oppression  of  the  strong  when  you 
take  your  last  feeble  steps  with  crutch  and  cane,  and  in 
sanctity  will  it  guard  the  place  where  your  dust  shall  rest 
until  resurrection  morn! 


314  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Gentlemen,  they  have  clamored  loud  and  made  much 
ado,  because  Erickson  said  that  just  as  they  were  wrapping 
the  girl  to  take  her  from  the  Kaufmann  home,  Mrs.  Kauf- 
mann  came  and  looked  at  the  girl,  and  shedding  a  few  tears 
spoke  to  her  in  their  own  dialect.  Erickson  did  not  know 
what  she  said,  but  the  girl  turned  her  eyes  upon  this  de- 
fendant and  spoke  a  word  in  a  soft,  gentle  tone.  They  tell 
you  that  if  the  defendant  had  murdered  her  as  we  claim, 
the  child  would  not  have  spoken  with  this  forgiving  tone.  I 
tell  you,  gentlemen,  that  if  that  little  girl,  with  her  latest 
breath  spoke  softly  and  gently  to  the  woman  who  had 
murdered  her,  it  does  not  disprove  the  crime.  It  but  shows 
that  in  that  sad  hour,  standing  in  the  mists  between  two 
eternities,  without  envy,  malice  or  hatred  in  her  heart,  she 
was  filled  with  the  spirit  of  Him  who  said  to  the  repentent 
thief  upon  the  cross,  "This  day  thou  shalt  be  with  me 
in  paradise." 


However,  one  of  Egan's  most  effective  speeches 
was  an  extemporaneous  outburst  of  genuine  elo- 
quence, delivered  to  the  Court  at  Yankton,  on  March 
1,  1911,  when  he  was  arguing  a  motion  for  a  con- 
tinuation of  the  murder  trial  of  Millard  J.  Lampo. 
He  said  in  part : 

May  it  Please  the  Court :  I  had  thought  that  it  would  not 
be  necessary  for  me  to  speak  in  behalf  of  this  motion,  because 
it  had  not  occured  to  me  that  it  would  be  seriously  opposed; 
hence  I  must,  at  this  time,  confess  myself  much  surprised 
and  taken  wholly  unawares. 

As  I  see  and  hear  the  very  determined  opposition  to 
this  motion  by  the  learned  and  able  counsel  for  the  state,  I 
am  much  confused  and  deeply  stirred.  Did  he  stand,  or  did 
this  honored  court  stand,  as  I  stood  on  yesterday,  and  look 
as  I  looked,  into  the  sad  and  melancholy  eyes  and  tear- 
stained  face  of  the  young  wife  of  this  defendant  *  *  *  one 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  315 

glance  would  have  been  more  eloquent  than  any  words  of 
mine  and  more  effective  on  this  occasion,  than  any  periods 
that  ever  fell  from  Grady's  lips  of  gold. 

She  called  to  me,  as  I  did  leave  her  to  her  sorrow,  for 
her  days  are  all  accomplished — "Please,  Mr.  Egan,  please 
put  off  this  case  until  I  may  stand  by  his  side  and  all  will  be 
well."  Forgetting,  as  woman  always  forgets,  herself,  even 
in  her  saddest  and  most  terrible  hour,  she  pleads  for  him,  her 
husband,  with  the  tenderness  and  sympathy  that  fits  woman 
always  as  a  garment — Will,  I  ask,  this  Court,  and  this  state, 
hear  her  cry  and  heed  her  not? 

***** 

And  why  this  hurry  and  this  haste?  What  motive 
actuates,  what  duty  impels  the  able  counsel  for  the  state  to 
hurry  this  defendant,  bended  in  grief  and  broken  in  spirit, 
into  trial  for  his  life  in  this  ungracious  day?  The  informa- 
tion in  this  case,  charging  his  offense,  has  just  been  filed 
within  an  hour.  The  state  can  wait!  South  Dakota  owes 
something  to  this  mother  and  her  child.  Our  state  is  more 
interested  in  the  weak  than  in  the  strong;  in  the  young 
than  in  the  aged;  in  the  new  than  in  the  old.  The  state  can 

wait! 

***** 

Shall  wifehood  be  held  for  naught  and  motherhood  be 
rebuked  by  the  hurried  and  unnecessary  action  of  the  great 
state  of  South  Dakota?  Shall  this  young  wife  be  denied  the 
word  of  encouragement  and  the  act  of  charity,  as  she  goes 
down  into  the  valley  of  the  shadows  of  death?  Who  knows 
what  fruits  she  may  bear,  if  encouraged,  for  the  glory  and 
happiness  of  this  Republic! 

***** 

Motherhood,  that  sacred  and  awe-inspiring  word — before 
it  the  gentle  Joseph  wept  in  that  famous  manger,  while 
kneeling  with  the  spouse  of  God;  and  inspired  by  it  all  the 
good  and  great  who  have  lived  and  died  made  us  their  debtors 
in  this  glorious  hour. 


316  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

Motherhood,  the  charm  and  fascination  of  that  noble 
word!  The  greatest  writer  of  the  human  tongue,  when 
weighing  all  the  nouns  and  verbs  and  adjectives  that  followed 
the  shining  pathway  of  his  glorious  pen,  declared  that  in  all 
the  language  known  to  the  heart  of  man,  the  noblest  word, 
is  Mother. 

Mother  in  Motherhood!  What  a  picture  and  a  painting 
the  suggestion  calls  to  the  mind  of  every  living  man!  To 
me  it  suggests  all  that  is  dear  and  sweet  and  soft  and  kind 
in  life's  uneven  ways.  To  me  it  paints  the  picture,  the 
grandest  scene  that  ever  blessed  my  eager  eyes.  It  is  the 
picture  of  a  woman  whose  cheeks  were  rosy  and  whose  hair 
was  white;  whose  religion  was  kindness,  and  whose  creed 
was  love,  giving  to  me  her  sacred  benediction  as  she  left  me 
with  the  assurance  that  we  should  meet  again  at  the  feet  of 
God,  if  I  would  but  practice  mercy  that  I  might  receive  it, 
on  the  final  day — my  gentle,  kindly  mother,  the  noblest 
daughter  of  the  sons  of  men!  And  could  she  speak  today, 
could  the  mother  of  any  man  present  speak,  she  would  plead 
for  that  young  wife  up  at  Utica,  who  at  this  sad  hour  sits 
alone  in  the  shadows  of  her  great  grief.  Sympathy!  Yes, 
call  it  sympathy!  I  declare  it  boldly,  for  sympathy  is  the 
grandest  flower  that  blooms  and  blossoms  between  "the 
bleak  and  barren  peaks  of  two  eternities." 

***** 

Way  back  yonder,  in  that  ancient  city  of  Bethlehem, 
God  sent  His  angels  and  His  stars  to  stand  guard  while  a 
child  was  born  who  should  be  the  Judge  of  Judges  and  the 
King  of  Kings.  Will  not  South  Dakota,  speaking  through 
the  lips  of  this  kindly  judge,  give  this  girl  a  chance? 
***** 

The  legal  phase — I  feel,  your  honor,  that  to  place  the 
young  man  on  trial  under  the  existing  circumstance  and 
convict  him  would  cause  this  Court  to  promptly  set  aside  the 
verdict.  The  law  contemplates  a  fair  and  impartial  trial  for 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  317 

the  defendant,  with  all  his  faculties  alert,  his  mind  un- 
perturbed with  the  young  wife  sitting  by  her  husband's  side. 
Today  this  cannot  be. 

But,  your  honor,  I  do  not  place  my  client  before  you, 
nor  base  my  argument  in  support  of  this  motion,  wholly  upon 
the  narrow  confines  of  the  technical  rules  of  law,  born  of 
laborious  logic  by  the  light  of  the  midnight  lamp.  I  stand 
upon  no  such  narrow  and  exclusive  ground.  I  appeal  to  a 
law  that  is  older  and  higher  than  your  statutes  or  your  con- 
stitution. A  law  that  was,  before  God  spoke  to  Moses  and 
commanded  him  to  organize  the  great  Sanhedrin,  that  ancient 
criminal  tribunal  of  the  Jews — a  law  that  was  white  with  age 
when  Marcus  Aurelius  taught  his  philosophy  in  the  city  of 
the  seven  hills;  a  law  that  found  full  incarnation  only,  in  the 
life  of  Him,  the  meek  and  lowly  One,  whom  cruel  Pilate  sur- 
rendered unto  death.  To  this  law — the  law  of  the  human 
heart — I  appeal  *  *  *  Relying  on  that  ancient  and  beautiful 
law  and  the  justice  of  this  righteous  Judge,  I  rest  my  case 
in  confidence,  knowing  full  well  that  this  motion  will  prevail. 


The  following  brief  extracts  are  taken  from 
Egan's  masterful  eulogy  over  R.  W.  Dickinson,  of 
Sioux  Falls,  who  died  in  the  early  spring  of  1916, 
and  who,  prior  to  his  death,  requested  that  George 
W.  Egan  should  deliver  his  funeral  oration.  The 
gifted  orator  said: 

"How  beautiful  on  the  top  of  the  mountain  are  the  feet 
of  him  that  bringeth  glad  tidings." 

These  golden  words  of  the  prophet  Isaiah,  quoted  fre- 
quently by  me  to  my  friend,  with  his  approval,  while  his  blood 
flowed  warm  and  true,  I  shall  make  my  text  today,  as  we  come 
to  pay  our  tribute  and  last  respects  to  him  who  sleeps  beneath 
these  blossoms  and  these  flowers. 


318  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

The  one  consuming  passion  of  his  life  was  love  of  country 
and  of  men.  Patriotism  with  him  became  a  high  and  holy 
purpose;  and  to  him  there  was  no  North,  no  South,  no  East,  no 
West.  He  loved  his  country  in  a  lump.  In  the  depths  of  his 
kind  and  gentle  heart,  there  was  room  for  every  acre  of  his 
country's  sunny  soil;  its  every  hill  upon  which  morning 
breaks;  its  every  vale  that  cradles  the  evening  shadows;  its 
every  gentle  stream  that  laughs  back  the  image  of  the  sun. 

***** 

I  have  said  that  he  loved  man.  Yes;  he  loved  every 
living  creature.  He  fed  the  birds  and  they  knew  him.  The 
fowl  of  the  air  and  the  beasts  of  the  earth  came  at  his  call. 
He  understood  them  and  they  loved  him.  Not  man  nor  beast 
nor  bird  went  hungry  from  his  door.  If  all  the  birds  he  fed 
with  his  loving  hands  could  gather  at  his  bier  today,  with 
cords  of  affection  fastened  to  their  wings,  they  could  bear  his 
body  to  yonder  eternal  hill  to  rest  in  peace.  If  all  the  men 
and  women,  living  and  dead,  to  whom  he  spoke  a  tender  word 
or  for  whom  he  did  a  kindly  act,  could  gather  at  his  bier 
today  to  raise  their  voices  in  praise,  a  mighty  chorus  would 
ring  forth  that  would  drown  the  ocean's  never-ceasing  roar. 


Prof.  T.  A.  Harmon 

Biographical — Born,  Plymouth,  Michigan,  May  27,  1871. 
Graduated  from  Plymouth  high  school  1889;  from  Normal 
College  1896;  took  his  A.  B.  degree  at  the  University  of 
Michigan  1909.  Superintendent  of  schools,  Casnovia,  Mich., 
three  years;  Watervliet,  Michigan,  five  years;  Hart,  Michigan, 
two  years;  Yankton,  South  Dakota,  seven  years.  Married 
Miss  Flora  Radcliffe,  1900.  Father  of  two  children — a  boy 
and  a  girl. 


PROF.  T.  A.  HARMON 

In  addition  to  being  an  artistic  word  painter, 
Professor  Harmon  gives  to  his  orations  an  historical 
setting  that  bespeaks  the  mind  of  the  finished 
scholar.  He  has  a  style  that  is  plainly  individualistic. 
Then,  again,  having  studied  elocution  and  oratory 
while  in  college,  his  delivery  is  forceful  and  inspir- 
ing. He  has  excelled,  not  only  as  a  popular  lec- 
turer, but  as  one  of  the  leading  commencement 
orators  of  the  state. 

His  first  regular  series  of  Chautauqua  lectures 
was  delivered  in  Kentucky,  Arkansas,  and  Missouri, 
in  1914,  under  the  auspices  of  the  American  Bureau, 
of  St.  Louis.  From  the  opening  date  his  lectures 
proved  popular — so  much  so  that  a  large  number 
of  towns  along  his  route  promptly  asked  for  a  return 
date.  In  1915,  he  lectured  for  the  Britt  Lyceum 
Bureau,  of  Lincoln,  Nebraska. 

Harmon  is  the  orator  eloquent  as  well  as  argu- 
mentative. A  study  of  the  following  extracts  from 
a  few  of  his  addresses  will  reveal  the  beauty  and 
vigor  of  his  style : 

From   "THE   SIGN   ON    THE   OPEN    ROAD." 

There  are  other  scenes  we  might  have  visited;  other 
problems  we  might  have  studied;  other  lessons  we  might 
have  found:  this  is  the  last.  It  is  midnight.  A  distant  clock 
slowly  tolls  away  the  hours,  and  crowing  cocks  announce  the 
approach  of  a  new  day.  High  above  and  far  away  rides  the 


322  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

moon  like  an  aerial  ship  upon  the  fleecy-like  clouds  of  the 
sky;  the  stars,  thousands  upon  thousands,  twinkle  and  sparkle 
and  glitter.  They  represent  aeons  of  other  lives  and 
other  worlds.  And  now,  as  we  turn  to  view  our  last 
scene  together,  we  behold  first  a  low  iron  fence,  and  then, 
beyond  it,  clusters  of  dark  pines,  tall  rising  spires,  small  gray 
stones,  and  an  occasional  tufted  mound.  It  is  the  resting 
place  of  the  dead.  How  quiet  it  lies  in  the  softened  light  of 
the  night.  Back  somewhere  among  the  pines,  the  harsh 
strange  call  of  a  bird  is  heard;  and  all  else  is  silent  save  the 
mournful  cry  of  a  loon  that  floats  from  the  distant  woods  like 
the  wail  of  a  lost  soul.  To  our  right  the  Open  Road  extends 
for  a  little  distance,  like  a  silver  cord,  and  then  is  lost  to  us 
forever.  It  goes  on  and  on-  and  on — on  into  eternity.  But 
to  you  and  to  me,  the  Open  Road  ends  here. 


From  "THE  PIPER  OF  DREAMS." 

This  profusion  of  principles  is  shown  in  the  great  master 
minds  of  art,  literature  and  music.  It  is  seen  in  the  compo- 
sitions of  Richard  Strauss.  His  incomparable  symphony  ex- 
presses the  development  of  the  human  race  from  its  origin 
through  its  various  phases — religious,  scientific,  philosophical, 
psychological — and  its  atmospheres  of  romanticism,  idealism 
and  realism,  from  barbarian  mythology  to  the  Superman  of 
Nietzsche. 

The  symphony  begins  like  Angelo's  Last  Judgment;  it 
ends  in  the  spirit  of  Dionysius,  Nietzsche's  idea  of  despair, 
defeat,  conquest  and  tragedy.  For  Strauss,  there  was  no 
God;  yet  he  filled  his  music  with  the  spirit  of  the  Divine. 
He  intended  his  inspiration  as  an  homage  to  the  genius  of 
Frederick  Nietzsche,  the  Jew.  In  Zarathustra,  Nietzsche 
writes:  "God  is  dead."  The  works  of  Bernard  Shaw,  too, 
thrill'  us  with  the  Nietzschean  dream  of  the  Superman.  The 
sculpture  of  Max  Klinger  breathes  its  spirit.  The  over-soul 
of  Emerson  is  a  repetition  of  the  soul  of  Zarathustra. 
Wagner  is  another  illustration  of  this  conflict  of  human  ideals. 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  323 

This  artist  felt  the  ceremonial  atmosphere  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church;  yet  he  sang  the  philosophy  of  Buddhism. 
He  worked  out  the  fatalistic  philosophy  of  Schopenhauer. 

Like  the  voice  of  the  night  wind,  rich  with  sentiment, 
aspiration,  achievement,  and  rich  with  resistance,  defeat  and 
tragedy;  so  is  the  tone  of  the  spirit  of  today.  It  is  a  complex 
of  the  like  and  the  unlike,  the  Christ  and  the  anti-Christ,  the 
beautifully  barbaric  imaginative  and  the  lonely  barren.  The 
sermon  on  the  Mount  mingles  with  the  insane  ravings  of  a 
Nietzsche;  the  spirit  of  Apollo  quickens  to  the  bacchanalian 
dance  of  a  Dionysius;  the  golden  age  of  one  ideal  feels  the 
iron  heel  of  the  next.  Materialism,  idealism,  monism,  plural- 
ism, empiricism,  romanticism,  naturalism  combine  to  form  the 
enlightenment  of  the  moment. 


From  "A  MESSAGE  OF  PEACE." 

In  the  Wiertz  gallery  in  Brussels  is  a  picture  called 
"Napoleon  in  Hell."  Napoleon  with  folded  hands  and  face 
unmoved  is  shown  sinking  slowly  into  the  land  of  the  shades. 
The  background  of  the  painting  is  filled  with  the  faces  and 
forms  of  the  dead.  They  represent  3,070,000  men  and  boys 
who  fell  upon  the  field  of  battle  that  the  name  of  Napoleon 
might  be  made  illustrious  forever.  More  than  half  of  this 
number  were  sacrificed  to  the  fame  of  Napoleon  by  France 
herself.  Their  dead  bodies  lying  upon  the  field  of  battle  mark 
the  trail  of  Napoleon's  glory  beyond  the  Alps,  into  Italy  and 
Egypt,  over  Switzerland  and  Austria,  through  Germany  and 
Russia.  "Let  them  die,"  he  said,  "You  can  always  replace  a 
common  soldier."  Yes,  it  is  indeed,  a  trail  of  glory  leading 
to  the  harvest  fields  of  death. 

Pierre  Frittel  in  his  wonderful  painting,  "The  Conquer- 
ors," represents  the  great  war  generals  of  the  ages.  Caesar, 
Napoleon,  Sesostris,  Alexander,  Charlemagne,  and  others  are 
shown  in  their  splendid  equipments,  the  paraphernalia  of  war. 
This  line  of  irresistible  masters  of  nations  gradually  passes 
into  the  shadows  of  the  background  of  death.  For  here,  on 


324  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

either  side,  is  represented  the  millions  of  men  who  suffered 
and  died  in  battle.  The  conquerors  marched  up  through  this 
avenue  of  lifeless  forms,  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of 
death,  that  they  might  occupy  the  center  of  the  picture;  that 
their  names  might  be  written  large  on  the  pages  of  history; 
that  their  deeds  might  ever  be  retold  to  the  children  of 
nations;  that  they,  themselves,  might  always  hold  in  the 
memory  of  the  world  a  position  for  adulation  and  honor.  But 
in  the  background  of  the  picture  are  the  gleanings  of  war, 
the  grinning  skulls  of  men,  the  uncounted  myriads  of  the 
dead,  sacrificed  upon  the  field  of  battle  for  individual  power, 
individual  ambition,  and  individual  glory. 
***** 

The  nineteenth  century  had  eight  important  wars.  These 
wars  as  usual  took  their  toll.  The  damage  to  business,  I  can- 
not estimate;  the  loss  to  invention,  art  and  literature,  I  cannot 
guess;  the  effect  upon  home  and  nation,  I  do  not  know.  The 
records  only  show  that  these  eight  wars  cost  $3,760,000,000, 
and  that  they  killed  14,000,000  men  and  boys. 

When  we  glance  over  this  array  of  figures;  when  we 
realize  that  these  expenses  must  be  paid  by  succeeding  gen- 
erations; when  we  see  how  heavily  the  cost  of  battle  burdens 
the  workers  of  a  country;  when  we  find  the  beautiful  and  the 
sublime  of  a  nation  surrendered  to  this  mortgage  of  blood; 
when  we  picture  the  scenes  of  conflict  with  men  in  companies, 
regiments,  battalions,  and  divisions,  hacking,  stabbing,  pound- 
ing, shooting  each  other  to  death;  when  we  see  the  dead  lying 
in  winrows  on  scattered  thickly  over  the  field;  when  we  ob- 
serve the  writhing  of  the  wounded  or  listen  to  the  last 
message  of  the  dying;  when  we  sense  the  meaning  of  their 
loss  to  the  folks  at  home  and  to  the  nation  as  a  whole;  when 
we  fully  comprehend  this  organized  murder,  this  systematic 
killing  as  instituted  and  practiced  by  nations,  we  come  to 
our  conclusion,  the  only  conclusion  possible  for  us  to  reach: 
War  is  unnecessary  and  has  never  offered  a  suitable  excuse 
for  action  to  a  rational  world. 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  325 

From  "JOAN  OF  ARC." 

Great  events  in  history  come  from  causes  numerous, 
interrelated  and  complex.  However  distinct,  individualistic, 
or  independent  wonderful  happenings  may  seem  to  the  casual 
student,  they  are  found  upon  close  observation  to  spring 
from  many  sources.  These  sources  or  causes  are  political, 
moral,  social,  religious  and  industrial. 

The  philosophy  of  history,  in  its  interpretation,  points  to 
scientific  speculation,  to  original  systems  of  reasoning,  to  the 
explanatory  principles  of  nature,  to  scholastic  theological 
conceptions,  to  improved  methods  underlying  industrial  devel- 
opment, to  the  vital  forces  of  political  ambition,  to  the  in- 
fluence of  the  mob,  to  the  spirit  of  the  times,  to  the  soul  of 
the  genius.  It  also  points  to  the  infinite — that  mystical  ele- 
ment which  escapes  analysis.  For  as  Goethe  once  remarked: 
"Existence  divided  by  human  reason  leaves  always  a  re- 
mainder." There  is  no  exact  way  to  measure  the  infinite. 

In  dealing  with  this  subject,  humanity  is  ever  groping 
for  cause,  for  limit  and  for  reason.  The  problem  always 
baffles  solution;  the  answer  is  never  to  be  had.  But,  not- 
withstanding the  uncertainties  of  this  profound  force,  man's 
curiosity  is  forever  prompting  him  to  study  its  manifesta- 
tions and  its  results.  So  it  is  that  the  thought  we  would 
pursue  here,  points  to  this  unknowable  factor  in  the  lives  of 
men.  For,  after  making  allowance  for  the  expression  of  the 
social  spirit,  for  the  personality  of  a  race,  for  the  peculiar 
temperament  of  a  people,  for  artistic,  economic  or  religious 
environment,  there  yet  remains  one  great  agent  in  the  con- 
cerns of  mankind.  It  is  the  hand  of  fate,  the  act  of  provi- 
dence, the  mind  of  God. 

***** 

Clothed  in  white,  the  emblem  of  purity,  the  token  of 
sainthood,  Joan  of  Arc  now  stood  alone.  Did  I  say  that  she 
was  alone?  No;  No!  She  was  not  alone.  For  now  a  heavenly 
vision  came  to  the  little  peasant  girl  of  old  Donremy.  True 
to  the  last,  St.  Catherine,  St.  Margaret  and  St.  Michael  ap- 


326  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

peared  to  her  in  this  fearful  ordeal  of  death.  It  was  then 
that  she  understood  the  meaning  of  their  prediction:  "Do  not 
lament  your  martyrdom;  through  it  you  will  come  to  the 
kingdom  of  paradise." 

It  was  at  this  time  that  Father  Cauchon  shouted:  "Joan! 
I  am  come  for  the  last  time  to  exhort  you  to  repent  and  seek 
the  pardon  of  God!"  Her  reply  was:  "I  die  through  you." 
These  were  the  last  words  she  spoke  to  any  person  on  this 
earth;  for,  at  that  moment,  a  pile  of  black  smoke  shot  through 
with  red  flashes  of  flame,  rolled  up  in  a  thick  volume,  and 
hid  her  from  view.  Her  voice,  sweet  in  prayer,  was  yet  to 
be  heard  from  the  depth  of  this  darkness.  Then  for  one  brief 
moment,  the  wind  drew  the  smoke  like  a  curtain  from  the 
girl,  and  showed  for  the  last  time,  the  wonderful  pleading 
eyes,  the  saint-like  face  turned  toward  the  cross,  loyal  to  her 
God  to  the  last;  and  they  saw  the  moving  lips  whisper  again 
and  again,  the  One  Great  Word  in  all  the  world — "Jesus." 

The  end  was  sudden.     For  a  great  volume  of  fire  and 
flame   burst  upward,   and   enveloped  the    girl   in    a   roar   of 
seething  rage  and  fury.     Bones  and  blood  and  flesh  and  soul 
disappeared:  Joan  of  Arc  had  gone  to  her  long  reward. 
***** 

Morality  will  ever  weep  for  the  deeds  of  the  Maid  of 
Donremy;  Reverence  will  always  number  her  beads;  Liberty 
will  honor  her  memory;  Religion  will  crown  her  a  martyred 
saint;  and  Mankind  will  cherish  her — a  model  of  piety,  patri- 
otism "and  human  love. 

***** 

This  simple  unlettered  peasant  girl  of  the  fifteenth 
century,  listening  to  the  voices  of  her  angels,  gave  her  all  to 
her  country,  her  king  and  her  God.  Knowing  that  defeat  was 
to  be  her  fate,  she  marched  on;  knowing  that  disgrace,  suffer- 
ing, calumny  were  in  store  for  her,  she  marched  on;  knowing 
that  death — the  cruel  death  of  fire — was  ahead,  she  marched 
on;  actuated  by  the  love  of  her  native  land  and  her  God,  she 
marched  on — marched  on  to  defeat,  to  disgrace  and  to  death. 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  327 

We  may  not  fully  appreciate  this  little  martyred  girl  of 
old  France.  To  the  student  of  the  unknowable  factor  in 
human  affairs,  the  vision  of  Joan,  holding  in  death  the  torch 
of  national  liberty  and  the  crucifix  of  God,  represents  the  last 
word  in  human  idealism.  They  who  catch  this  vision  and  this 
meaning  divine,  see  again  a  slender  form  of  girlish  beauty; 
behold  once  more  the  upturned  face,  the  pleading  eyes,  the 
moving  lips;  and  observe  the  cross  of  God  held  high  above 
the  flames.  It  is  in  such  a  vision  of  Divine  purpose  that  the 
student  feels  the  full  force  of  Christian  faith  and  Christian 
love.  It  is  in  such  a  manifestation  of  the  human  and  the 
infinite  that  he  can  sense  the  meaning  of  the  Divine,  under- 
stand the  loyalty  of  the  soul,  and  comprehend  the  union  of 
the  two.  Such  in  purpose,  meaning  and  result  was  the 
heroine  of  France,  the  servant  of  God,  the  master  of  men; 
the  girl,  known,  written  and  recorded  in  the  archives  of  her 
native  land — Joan  of  Arc,  the  Lady  of  the  Lily,  the  one 
great  representative  of  the  unmeasured  factor  in  human 
affairs. 


R.  L.  Kemple 


Biographical — Born,  Preston,  Minn.,  Aug.  16,  1873. 
Farmer's  son.  Graduated  from  Country  schools,  Preston  high 
school,  State  Normal  at  Winona,  and  took  special  work  at 
Highland  Park  college.  Eleven  years  in  educational  work. 
City  superintendent  at  Jasper,  Arlington  and  Wheaton,  Minn., 
and  at  Madison  and  Watertown,  S.  D.  Lecturer,  past  eight 
years,  Wright  Lyceum  Bureau,  St.  Louis. 


ROBERT  L.  KEMPLE 

The  only  South  Dakotan,  as  yet,  to  gain  per- 
manent recognition  on  the  lecture  platform  is  Prof. 
Robert  L.  Kemple,  of  Watertown.  Since  1908,  he 
has  been  identified  with  the  Wright  Lyceum  Bureau, 
of  St.  Louis,  Missouri.  As  a  popular  lecturer  he  has 
gained  a  national  reputation.  His  subjects  are: 
'The  American  Boy,"  "A  Young  Man's  Possibili- 
ties," "Fits  and  Misfits  in  Life,"  and  "The  Other 
Side  of  the  Door." 

First  of  all,  Kemple  must  be  considered  as  a 
humorist.  Although  there  is  a  backbone  of  high 
grade  philosophy  extending  through  all  of  his  ad- 
dresses, yet  his  illustrations  are  perfect  models  of 
the  most  startling  wit.  Passing  "from  the  sublime 
to  the  ridiculous,"  he  paints  a  picture  of  his  own 
babes  lying  peacefully  asleep  in  their  trundle  beds 
and  then  follows  it  a  moment  later  with  the  city  boy 
in  the  bath-tub ;  and  thus  he  holds  an  audience  spell- 
bound at  will.  No  man  in  America  has  had  more 
return  engagements  than  he.  This  is  the  best  evi- 
dence of  his  success.  Comparatively  penniless  when 
he  entered  the  lecture  field,  he  has,  through  his  own 
untiring  efforts,  amassed  a  comfortable  fortune. 

By  a  comparison  of  his  speeches  with  the  others 
contained  herein,  it  will  at  once  be  seen  that  his  style 
is  very  original.  Those  brief  extracts  that  have  been 


330  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

gathered  need  no  further  comment.  The  happy  mix- 
ture of  wit  and  philosophy  contained  in  them  will 
appeal  to  all. 

You  can  all  tell  by  my  homely,  homely,  homely  face  that 
I  was  at  one  time  a  school  teacher.  I  had  at  my  last  charge 
as  superintendent  of  city  schools,  some  1100  boys  and  girls, 
and  I  know  just  a  little  of  the  hopes  and  possibilities  of  the 
boys  and  girls;  ay,  their  peculiarities  also. 

One  day  I  entered  my  eighth  grade  room  and  found  the 
teacher  hearing  a  class  in  Civil  Government.  The  topic  under 
discussion  was  copyrights  on  books.  The  class  had  the  work 
well  in  hand.  I  took  charge  of  the  class.  "Boys  and  girls," 
I  said,  "let  us  make  this  subject  practical.  What  book  have 
you  in  the  home  upon  which  the  copyright  has  expired?" 
They  did  not  seem  to  know,  and  so,  in  order  to  draw  them 
out,  I  told  them  it  was  a  book  that  their  mothers  and  fathers 
read  every  night  and  every  morning;  a  book  their  parents 
read  nearly  all  of  the  day  on  the  Sabbath  and  certainly  was  a 
book  they  loved  and  cherished  more  than  any  other  book  in 
the  home. 

A  sixteen-year-old  girl  from  the  country  sat  in  the  class. 
An  expression  of  intelligence  played  over  her  face.  She 
raised  her  hand. 

I  said,  "Sue,  what  book  is  it?" 

She  responded,  "Montgomery  Ward  and  Go's  Catalogue." 

The  greatest  inheritance  that  can  befall  your  American 
boy  is  that  he  was  born  in  poverty  and  reared  in  adversity. 
Riches  is  harder  on  the  youth  of  our  land  than  poverty.  It  is 
the  knocks  and  bumps  the  American  boy  receives  in  his  youth 
that  prepare  him  for  great  citizenship. 

Ex-Senator  Beveridge  tells  us  that  94  per  cent  of  our 
governors  started  from  the  farm.  Let  us  see  how  the  farms 
are  producing  the  governors  of  our  country. 

A  boy  on  the  farm  at  the  age  of  five,  has  environments, 
such  that  he  early  has  a  duty — the  gate  is  ajar,  the  pigs 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  331 

break  out,  he  tells  mama.  He  is  meeting  life;  he  is  working. 
Work  is  a  great  developer  of  character.  At  the  age  of  seven 
he  gathers  the  eggs  and  feeds  the  calves,  meeting  life.  At 
the  age  of  twelve  he  is  out  with  a  team  and  plow.  The 
harness  breaks;  he  doesn't  run  for  papa,  he  runs  to  the  fence 
and  gets  a  piece  of  wire  and  twists  it  in.  "Get  up,  Dolly"  and 
"Go  on,  Bill."  At  eighteen  years  of  age,  during  the  months 
of  December  and  January,  he  is  up  in  the  morning  at  five 
o'clock,  builds  the  old  kitchen  fire,  does  the  chores,  in  to 
breakfast  and  at  eight  o'clock  is  over  to  the  little  white  school 
house  for  one  hour  of  frolic  and  fun,  and  take  off  your  hat 
to  the  future  American  boy  that  will  be  heard  from. 

How  about  the  city  or  town  boy  whc  is  nursed  in  the  lap 
of  luxury?  At  the  age  of  seven  he  cannot  dress  himself 
alone.  At  the  age  of  ten  his  mama  and  papa  are  still  rock- 
ing him  to  sleep.  Mama's  sweetheart  and  papa's  sissy.  At 
the  age  of  eighteen  he  comes  down  the  street  with  knee 
pants,  a  weakling,  physically  and  morally.  He  is  so  slender 
that  when  he  takes  a  bath  he  has  to  step  out  of  the  bath-tub 
before  he  pulls  the  plug  or  he  will  go  down  into  the 
sewer. 


Progress  in  life  proceeds  by  metamorphic  changes. 
When  a  thing  reaches  the  acme  of  its  perfection,  it  changes 
its  form  or  type  as  the  chrysalis  becomes  the  butterfly.  The 
rude  hand-sickle  with  which  the  ancients  used  to  cut  their 
grain,  passed  through  a  series  of  improvements  culminating 
in  the  cradle  of  which  our  grand  fathers  were  so  proud. 
Then  there  was  a  change  of  type,  and  we  began  with  the 
mower  and  reaper,  the  latter  of  which  has  improved  into  the 
self-binder.  The  old  method  of  threshing  with  flail  and  horse 
hoof  has  nothing  in  common  with  our  modern  threshing  ma- 
chine, from  whose  side  the  clean  grain  comes  gushing  like 
water  from  a  spring. 


LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

One  of  the  greatest  contemplated  achievements  of 
modern  invention  is  the  production  of  rain  by  artificial  means. 
Some  have  charged  the  rain-makers  with  blasphemy  for 
thinking  to  interfere  with  Divine  Providence,  but  never  did 
a  farmer  turn  a  sod,  or  pull  a  weed  in  his  cornfield  that  did 
not  as  much  interfere  with  Divine  Providence.  It  is  by  just 
such  seeming  interference  that  man  has  risen  above  the 
beasts.  Wild  nature  was  given  man  to  subdue;  its  forces  to 
tame;  its  beasts  to  domesticate;  its  mountains  to  admire;  its 
valleys  to  bless;  its  mines  for  industry;  its  seas  for  commerce; 
its  soil  for  food,  and  its  forests  for  shelter;  its  stars  to  con- 
template and  its  flowers  to  love.  Ay,  truly,  man  is  the 
favored  son  of  creation  and  needs  only  to  shake  the  drowsy 
sleep  from  his  eyes  to  behold  the  magnitude  of  his  blessings 
and  opportunities. 

Yesterday,  America  was  discovered  but  yet  her  moun- 
tains of  iron  and  salt,  lead  and  copper,  gold  and  silver  have 
opened  and  placed  their  contents  at  the  threshold  of  the 
world.  The  hum  of  industry  is  heard  in  every  part  of  our 
land,  and  from  ocean  to  ocean,  we  have  broad  fields  of  grain, 
waving  and  rustling  in  the  summer  breezes;  and  by  the  rail- 
roads, telephones,  telegraph,  and  wireless  telegraphy  we  have 
brought  the  farthest  corners  of  our  nation  together  and  all 
over  this  fairest  and  brightest  of  continents  we  have  builded 
magnificent  homes,  schools,  churches,  and  a  new  civilization 
has  overspread  our  land  like  the  green  of  spring  time. 


One  of  the  most  beautiful  things  in  life  is  youth  and 
childhood.  A  little  babe  that  puts  its  little  hands  upon  your 
face  is  nearer  the  touch  of  divinity  than  you  will  ever  find  on 
this  earth. 

Seven  years  ago  I  had  been  away  for  three  months  on 
a  lecture  tour  and  had  not  seen  my  little  sweethearts.  I  re- 
turned home  on  Christmas  Eve  on  a  delayed  midnight  train. 
My  wife  knew  I  was  coming;  she  met  me  at  the  door,  and 
instantly  turned  to  the  little  room  where  my  little  sweet- 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  333 

hearts  lay  sleeping.  As  I  turned  on  the  electric  lights  on 
that  Christmas  Eve  and  looked  down  into  the  slumbering 
faces  of  my  little  jewels,  to  me  the  most  beautiful  picture  I 
ever  looked  upon,  this  thought  came  to  me:  the  man  that  is 
childless  may  with  his  millions  buy  the  picture  of  a  babe, 
upon  the  canvas  or  chiseled  in  cold  marble —  material  things — 
but  the  greatest  picture  in  the  world  is  the  living  picture  of 
our  own  little  American  boys  and  American  girls,  and  good 
people,  let  us  so  live  and  act  that  this  American  boy  may 
develop  into  honest,  true,  Christian  manhood;  that  this 
American  girl  may  bloom  into  beautiful  womanhood,  the 
foundation  of  every  nation. 


Attorney  James  G.  McFarland 

Biographical — Born,  Dubuque,  Iowa,  October  26,  1880. 
Educated,  Dubuque  public  schools  and  University  of 
Wisconsin.  Took  B.  A.  degree,  latter  institution,  1902. 
Completed  law  course,  same  school,  1904.  Removed  at  once 
to  Watertown,  S.  D.  Admitted  to  practice  in  this  state  on 
his  credentials.  Formed  partnership  with  C.  X.  Seward. 
Lasted  until  1910,  when  Seward  went  onto  the  bench. 
Practiced  alone  till  Nov.  1,  1912.  Formed  partnership  with 
Carl  D.  Johnson.  Married  Miss  Evelyn  Johnson,  May  31, 
1906.  Two  children — both  boys.  Elected  state  legislature, 
1912.  Re-elected,  1914. 


JAMES  G.  McFARLAND 

One  of  the  happiest  after-dinner  speakers  as 
well  as  one  of  the  readiest  impromptu  orators  in  the 
legal  profession  of  the  state  is  Attorney  James  G. 
McFarland,  of  Watertown.  Inasmuch  as  he  is  in 
such  great  demand  for  all  public  functions,  and  ow- 
ing to  the  fact  that  he  speaks  impromptu  almost 
exclusively,  it  has  been  hard  to  gather  extracts  from 
his  speeches,  as  the  occasions  are,  not  numerous  when 
his  addresses  have  been  stenographed.  The  three, 
^included  herein,  caught  in  "the  heat  of  action,"  will 
suffice  to  give  one  a  general  idea  of  his  beautiful 
word  painting. 

EXTRACT  FROM  SPEECH  IN  HOUSE  OF  REPRESENTA- 
TIVES ON  MOTHERS'  PENSION  BILL 

There  appears  in  Court  before  the  Judge — one  of  our 
Judges  elected  by  our  votes  to  do  justice  to  poor  and  rich 
alike — -a  woman  poor  in  this  world's  goods  but  rich  in  the 
mothers'  love  that  pulsates  through  her  whole  being.  Her 
gingham  dress  is  torn  and  old,  her  head  is  covered  only  by 
a  tiny  shawl,  and  clinging  to  her  skirts  are  four  beautiful 
flaxen-haired  children — the  youngest  but  a  toddling  babe,  the 
oldest  a  bright-eyed  boy  of  ten.  With  stern  demeanor,  the 
Judge  turns  to  her  and  says:  "What  have  you  to  say  why 
judgment  should  not  be  pronounced  against  you  that  because 
of  your  poverty  your  children  should  be  taken  from  you  and 
your  home  be  broken  up?" 

Is  this  the  vaunted  civilization  of  the  fair  State  of  South 
Dakota?  Should  not  a  mother  have  rights — not  privileges 
alone,  but  absolute  rights  on  the  treasury  of  our  State  for 


336  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

the  rearing  of  her  children  when  she  is  a  proper  custodian  for 
them? 

Every  precaution  is  thrown  around  this  right  extended 
to  the  widows  of  our  State.  The  widow  and  mother  must  be 
a  proper  person  to  have  the  custody  of  her  child.  She  must 
show  or  someone  must  show  for  her  to  the  satisfaction  of 
the  Court  that  it  is  necessary  in  order  to  keep  the  home  in- 
tact that  she  be  granted  certain  aid  from  the  County.  Any 
citizen  may  object  at  any  time  on  good  cause  shown  to  the 
further  allowance  to  any  person  receiving  a  mother's  pension 
under  this  act. 

In  the  name  of  humanity,  in  the  name  of  justice  and 
in  the  name  of  the  future  generations  of  this  State,  the  young 
men  and  women  who  are  but  babes  today,  give  this  bill  full 
and  fair  consideration  and  by  your  votes  let  your  answer 
to  the  Judge's  question  be  written  on  the  pages  of  the  history 
of  the  State. 


EXTRACT  FROM   ADDRESS   TO  JURY   IN  A   CASE   IN 
CODINGTON  COUNTY 

Today,  gentlemen  of  the  Jury,  the  nations  of  Europe  are 
at  war.  No  matter  what  the  causes  may  have  been,  no  matter 
who  is  to  blame  for  the  great  conflict  that  is  now  being  waged 
abroad,  no  matter  who  will  win  in  the  conflict,  each  nation, 
each  individual  in  the  great  fight,  is  actuated  by  love  of  home 
and  country.  If  you,  as  American  citizens,  were  called  upon 
today  to  fight  in  behalf  of  your  country,  it  would  be  first  for 
your  home  and  next  for  your  country  and  your  flag.  In  this 
case  one  of  the  sacred  principles  laid  down  by  our  fore- 
fathers in  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States  has  been 
violated.  You  are  called  upon  to  do  your  duty  as  Jurors  in 
this  case.  It  is  for  you  to  punish  one  who  has  violated  one  of 
those  sacred  principles,  viz:  the  freedom  of  the  home  and 
its  sanctity.  If  you  have  one  drop  of  red  American  blood 
in  you,  you  will  go  to  your  Jury  room  and  come  forth  with 
a  verdict  which  will  show  this  defendant  that  he  cannot 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  337 

violate  any  of  these  traditions.  You  are  not  called  upon  to 
shoulder  a  musket  and  go  forth  in  defense  of  your  home, 
your  family,  your  country,  but  you  are  called  upon  as  Jurors 
in  this  case  to  come  forth  with  a  verdict  which  will  sustain 
the  principles  set  down  in  our  Constitution,  which  will  protect 
the  homes  of  this  country,  and  which  will  make  every  woman 
in  the  State  feel  safe  in  the  security  of  her  home,  be  it  night 
or  day. 


EXTRACT  FROM  MEMORIAL  DAY  ADDRESS  TO  ELKS' 

LODGE 

As  Elks  we  have  learned  that,  when  the  hands  of  the 
clock  point  to  the  beginning  of  the  last  and  twelfth  hour, 
and  the  day  is  almost  done,  the  chimes  ring  out  a  message 
to  the  Absent — living  or  dead;  even  so,  when  time  points 
with  solemn  finger  to  the  beginning  of  the  last  and  twelfth 
month  and  the  Year  is  almost  gone,  we  gather  to  pay  tribute 
to  those  who  have  passed  to  that  great  Pasture  of  Peace, 
where  the  grass  is  always  sweet  and  green,  where  the  sun 
is  always  bright,  and  where  rest  is  eternal. 
"He's  an  Elk, 

It  matters  nothing 
What  the  world  may  say  or  feel. 
I  have  tried  him  on  his  honor, 
And  his  heart  's  as  true  as  steel; 

Of  what  others  say,  I  care  not. 
Nor  of  what  they  think  they  see, 
He's  an  Elk,  clean  through — God  bless  him, 
And  he's  good  enough  for  me." 
***** 

Let  us  scatter  flowers  along  the  road  of  life, 
nor  reck  where  falls  the  brilliant  rose,  the  soft  tinted 
violet,  or  the  fragrant  stately  lily,  so  that  they  may  bring 
rest  and  comfort  to  some  less  fortunate  or  suffering  soul. 


338  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

You,  my  brothers,  may  well  catch  inspiration  from 
the  actors  club  of  long  ago  and  their  hope  of  the  future, 
and  should  live  your  part  in  the  Drama  of  Life  to  further 
their  cherished  end.  You  should  be  prepared  to  fight,  if  nec- 
essary, for  these  things,  for  a  broader,  bigger,  better  life 
and  world;  to  fight  for  them  under  this  flag  whose  rippling 
folds  wave  in  a  perfect  blend  of  colors  over  the  greatest 
nation  in  the  world  and  which  lies  in  stately,  solemn,  holy 
beauty  on  the  altar  of  every  lodge  in  the  country. 
***** 

And  so  live,  that  when  you  hear  the  sound  of 
the  gavel  that  calls  you  to  take  your  place  in  the  Grand 
Lodge  above,  content  in  the  feeling  that  you  have  done  your 
full  Elk  duty  here  below,  you  may  go  to  browse  in  the  sunny 
pastures  of  perfect  knowledge  and  drink  of  the  waters  of 
eternal  peace.  And  with  this  great  purpose  of  Elkdom  before 
us,  we  can  say  that  indeed  a  "Vision  of  the  Future  rises." 


President  E.  C.  Perisho 

Biographical — Born,  Indiana.  Educated,  rural  schools, 
Carmel  Academy,  Eartham  college  and  Chicago  University. 
Took  A.  B.  at  Eartham  and  M.  A.  at  Chicago.  Taught,  Guil- 
ford  (N.  C.)  college,  Plattville  (Wis.)  Normal  and  University 
of  South  Dakota.  President  State  College,  Brookings,  S.  D., 
since  1914.  Author  of  numerous  pamphlets  and  reports  on 
Geology;  also  the  Geography  of  South  Dakota. 


ELLWOOD  C.  PERISHO 

» 

In  order  to  appreciate  the  oratory  of  President 
Perisho,  one  must  hear  it;  that  is,  his  forceful  de- 
livery and  inviting  personality  are  the  main  things 
that  give  vitality  to  his  public  speaking.  He  is  a 
stirring  orator,  universally  admired,  and  he  is  in 
constant  demand  as  a  lecturer  in  a  large  number  of 
the  different  states  in  the  union.  For  commence- 
ment, he  invariably  has  more  dates  than  he  can 
possibly  fill;  in  fact,  one  year,  he  had  twenty-eight 
invitations  for  the  same  night.  He  speaks  on  a  great 
variety  of  subjects,  and  seems  equally  at  home  on 
each  theme.  Only  a  few  minor  extracts  from  his 
numerous  great  speeches  can  be  incorporated  herein. 
The  following  is  an  extract  from  an  address  on 
"Citizenship"  given  at  Harrisburg,  Pa.: 

You  cannot  have  a  Republican  form  of  government  or 
maintain  the  Democratic  institutions  of  a  state  unless  you 
have  an  intelligent  citizenship.  You  can  not  have  an  in- 
telligent citizenship  unless  you  have  an  educated  people. 
You  cannot  have  an  educated  people  unless  they  have  the 
necessary  intellectual  training  which  gives  them  the  funda- 
mental conception  of  how  to  vote  and  how  to  rule. 


TRIBUTE  TO  DEAN  YOUNG  GIVEN  AT  THE  STATE 
UNIVERSITY 

The  universal  sorrow  today  of  Faculty,  Students  and 
friends  cannot  be  expressed  in  words  nor  can  the  grief  of  the 
University  be  told  in  any  form  of  speech.  No  words  of  mine 
can  show  the  admiration  and  love  of  this  institution  for  the 


342  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

life  just  passed.  Nothing  save  the  silence  of  our  hearts 
can  tell  how  much  we  thought  of  him  or  with  what  full 
measure  we  appreciated  his  work. 

*****  ^ 

So  little  do  we  understand,  so  finite  is  our  wisdom,  we  do 
not  know  but  that  the  best  of  life  comes  with  death.  No 
system  of  reasoning  will  ever  make  people  believe  that  a 
condition  which  becomes  universal  is  an  evil.  An  oriental 
philosopher  taught  his  people  that  the  Gods  hid  from  men 
the  happiness  of  death  in  order  that  they  might  live  content 
with  life  without  a  murmur. 

It  may  be  that  we  should  think  of  death — not  as  a  loss — 
but  rather  as  a  gain — not  as  the  end  but  only  as  the  be- 
ginning. The  larger  faith  of  which  we  have  heard  today 
teaches  us  that  death,  even  at  its  worst,  is  not  eternal. 


The  following  extract  is  from  the  address, 
"SHIPS  OR  SCHOOLS," 

delivered  before  the  State  Educational  Association 
at  Mitchell,  S.  D.,  in  1912 : 

Two  masters  now  rule  the  world — Force  and  Reason. 
Men  everywhere,  independent  of  state  or  nation;  creed  or 
party;  trade  or  profession — are  held  in  the  stern  grasp  of  the 
one  or  yield  to  the  gentle  teaching  of  the  other.  Conquest 
by  strength  and  power — irrespective  of  the  rights  of  others — 
is  the  sentiment  of  the  one.  Leadership  by  intelligence  and 
equity — considerate  of  all  men,  is  the  motto  of  the  other. 
Might  is  right,  thunders  the  one.  Love  will  triumph,  whispers 
the  other.  Under  the  smoke  of  conflict,  the  grime  of  avarice 
and  the  struggle  of  greed  is  the  one.  With  the  joy  of  living, 
the  thrill  of  hope  and  the  "beauty  of  the  lilies,"  is  the  other. 
In  the  shadow  of  the  coming  of  swords  lives  the  one;  in  the 
light  of  the  morning  of  peace  dwells  the  other. 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  343 

I  congratulate  the  state  and  the  nation,  that  the  greatest 
power  for  conquest  this  country  ever  saw  is  not  the  standing 
army,  so  many  thousand  strong,  with  all  their  cannon  and 
canister,  shot  and  shell,  swords  and  sabers;  but  it  is  the  rising 
army  of  20,000,000  children  enrolled  in  the  schools  of 
America.  The  most  powerful  set  of  officers  this  nation  main- 
tains are  not  our  generals  and  captains,  the  commodores  and 
commanders  of  the  army  and  navy,  but  they  will  be  found 
in  the  host  of  more  than  2,500,000  teachers,  who  without  drum 
or  bugle,  are  gently  planting  deep  and  securely  into  the  heads 
and  hearts  of  our  boys  and  girls  that  best  sort  of  patriotism 
which  in  a  generation  that  is  to  come  will  prove  itself  the 
very  bulwark  of  the  American  Republic. 


A     TRIBUTE    TO    BOOKER    T.    WASHINGTON,    GIVEN 

DURING     THE     ADDRESS     BEFORE     THE     STATE 

EDUCATIONAL  ASSOCIATION  AT  ABERDEEN, 

NOVEMBER,  1915 

No  discussion  just  now  of  the  value  of  Industrial  Educa- 
tion would  be  proper  without  stopping  a  moment  to  pay 
a  tribute  to  the  life  and  work  of  that  noted  citizen  at  whose 
grave  a  whole  race  mourns  today. 

Born  a  slave,  spending  his  youth  in  poverty,  but  am- 
bitious to  secure  an  education — he  worked  his  way  through 
Hampton  Institute.  In  the  early  80's  he  went  to  Tuskegee, 
Ala.,  where  he  founded  his  great  Industrial  School.  For 
one-third  of  a  century  he  gave  every  effort  of  his  life  to  the 
development  of  this  institution.  Tuskegee  with  its  3,500 
acres  of  land,  its  almost  100  buildings,  its  property  worth 
$500,000,  and  its  student  body,  present  and  past — all  this 
is  the  monument  to  Booker  T.  Washington.. 

He  needs  no  marble  tomb,  no  granite  shaft,  no  stone 
Sarcophagus  to  be  remembered  by  the  people  of  his  age; 
for  his  very  life  with  its  nobleness  of  service  and  its  in- 
spiration of  work  is  deeply  carved  upon  the  hearts  of  all 
his  people. 


344  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

It  took  Abraham  Lincoln  with  the  Union  Army  to  open 
the  door  of  opportunity  to  the  negro.  It  required  the  Na- 
tional Congress  and  most  of  our  States  to  confer  upon  him 
the  title  of  Citizen,  but  it  was  left  to  an  humble  slave  to 
really  show  the  black  men  how  to  pass  through  the  door 
and  make  use  of  this  greatest  gift — the  Freedom  of  American 
Citizenship. 

He  may  not  have  been  the  most  cultured  of  his  people — 
yet  none  were  held  in  so  high  esteem.  He  may  not  have  been 
the  most  eloquent  of  his  race — yet  men  everywhere,  white 
and  black,  were  eager  to  hear  him  speak.  He  may  not  have 
been  the  most  learned  of  the  Negroes — yet  he  was  their 
greatest  leader. 

Most  men  becoming  famous  bow  to  the  dictation  of  social 
and  political  ambition — not  so  with  Booker  T.  Washington. 
He  never  dreamed  of  Social  Equality — he  never  talked  of 
Race  Prejudice — he  never  thought  of  Political  Office.  With 
him  and  his  race,  it  was  work,  preparation,  industry,  achieve- 
ment. , 

Tonight  men  everywhere,  no  matter  their  race  or  color, 
forgetting  all  parties  and  factions,  never  thinking  of  Church 
or  Creed,  stand  with  bowed  heads  and  thankful  hearts  in 
memory  of  this  great  man,  for  the  life  he  led  and  the  work 
he  accomplished  as  the  Moses  of  his  people. 


The  following  extracts  are  from  an  address, 
"The  Economic  Phase  of  the  Liquor  Traffic,"  given 
before  mass  meetings  in  Sioux  Falls,  Mitchell,  Lead 
and  Aberdeen : 

The  proposition  which  I  submit  for  your  consideration 
is  this:  You  can  take  any  great  economic  question  that  you 
choose  and  you  will  find  that  the  financial  interest  of  the 
Liquor  problem  will  rise  up  and  overshadow  it  completely. 
The  crime  of  this  country  is  costing  the  American  people 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  345 

$3,500,000  a  day — yet  newspapers,  judges  etc.  assure  you 
that  two-thirds  to  three-fourths  of  all  the  crimes  committed 
can  be  traced  to  the  saloons  of  the  country. 

Much  is  said  about  Taxation  and  the  need  of  a  new 
system  for  the  collection  of  taxes — No  doubt  this  is  needed — 
but  as  we  find  it  today  we  have  a  little  over  $100,000,000,000. 
of  taxable  property  in  the  U.  S.  One  per  cent  of  this  is 
$1,000,000,000.  Very  seldom  do  we  pay  as  much  as  2  per 
cent — but  if  all  did  the  total  taxes  collected  would  not  more 
than  equal  the  amount  we  pay  for  strong  drink. 

We  are  told  that  the  Government  should  own  and 
operate  all  our  mines.  Even  if  this  were  true  the  total  gross 
output  of  all  the  gold,  silver,  iron,  lead,  zinc,  tin  and  all  the 
other  metaliferous  products  will  not  exceed  $700,000,000, 
while  the  annual  productions  of  all  our  coal,  oil,  gas,  cement, 
clay,  stone,  salt  and  all  other  non-metaliferous  products  will 
not  exceed  $1,000,000,000.  Hence  the  total  in  any  case  of  all 
mines  will  be  far  less  than  the  amount  the  people  spend  for 
liquor.  Take  any  great  economic  problem  you  please  and 
the  Liquor  Traffic  will  rise  up  and  overshadow  it  completely. 

All  this  concerning  the  liquor  traffic — and  I  have  said 
nothing  of  how  it  warps  in  a  cloud  of  mist  the  judgment  of 
the  wisest;  changes  the  most  eloquent  orator  into  a  stammer- 
ing inbecile;  or  goes  on  with  its  work  of  devastation  until 
the  REASON  is  dethroned  and  the  WILL  is  destroyed,  and 
the  poor  victim  sinks  to  helpless  ruin. 

***** 

Nor  have  I  told  you  that  at  the  door  of  every  saloon  is 
want,  woe  and  wretchedness,  regret  and  ruin — and  with  these 
you  will  always  find  Neglected  Chance,  Lost  Fortune,  For- 
gotten Vows,  and  Broken  Hearts. 


William  B.  Sterling 

Biographical — Born,  Dixon,  111.,  Feb.  9,  1863.  Graduated, 
Dixon  high  school,  at  age  of  sixteen.  Taught  country  school 
and  read  law.  Came  Dakota,  1881.  Settled  on  a  farm  near 
Huron,  with  parents.  Clerked  clothing  store,  Huron. 
Studied  law  with  N.  D.  Walling.  Entered  State  University 
Law  School,  Madison,  Wisconsin,  1883.  Took  three-year 
course  in  two.  Returned  Huron.  Formed  law  partnership 
with  William  T.  Love.  Elected  states  attorney,  Beadle 
county,  1886.  Re-elected,  1888.  Appointed  U.  S.  District 
attorney  for  South  Dakota  by  President  Harrison  in  1889. 
Appointed  attorney  for  Northwestern  railway  company  in 
this  state  about  the  same  time.  Resigned  both  positions, 
June,  1895,  and  accepted  attorneyship  for  the  Fremont,  Elk- 
horn  &  Missouri  Valley  Railroad  Company.  Headquarters, 
Omaha,  Neb.  Married  Miss  Olive  Snow,  Dixon,  111.,  June  4, 
1890.  Died  at  Omaha,  Oct.  15,  1897. 


WILLIAM  B.  STERLING 

During  the  pioneer  days  of  Dakota,  one  young 
attorney  loomed  up  above  all  of  his  contemporaries 
as  an  orator.  It  was  William  B.  Sterling,  of  Huron. 
What  a  calamity  that  he  should  have  been  stricken 
down  by  typhoid  at  the  tender  age  of  thirty-four, 
when  the  budding  flowers  of  a  bright  manhood,  filled 
with  promise,  had  just  begun  to  bloom.  He  was 
the  leader  of  the  state  ^ar,  until  he  left  the  state 
just  prior  to  his  death — a  fearless  attorney,  a  shrewd 
politician  and  an  inspiring  orator. 

After  his  death,  the  Honorable  Coe  I.  Crawford 
collected  and  had  published  his  "Memoirs."  It  is 
from  this  volume  that  the  following  extracts  of  his 
speeches  are  taken. 

Addressing  the  Beadle  County  Republican  Con- 
vention at  Huron,  on  May  5,  1888,  he  said: 

But  there  is  yet  another  man,  who,  though  he  does  not 
seek  the  nomination,  is  the  property  of  the  republican  party; 
and  who,  if  that  party  were  to  nominate  him  unasked,  could 
not  and  would  not,  I  believe,  refuse  to  stand  as  a  candidate. 
I  refer  to  him  of  the  great  heart  and  mighty  brain,  of  whom 
it  has  been  said  that  he  would  fire  the  hearts  of  the  young 
men,  stir  the  blood  of  our  manhood,  and  rekindle  the  fervor 
of  the  veteran.  I  refer  to  the  man  who  underwent  defeat  in 
the  last  National  Campaign,  but  who  rose,  Phoenix-like, 
above  the  ashes  of  defeat,  and  stands  before  the  world  today 
as  America's  foremost  citizen.  That  man,  gentlemen,  is  the 
great  Commoner  from  Maine,  James  G.  Elaine. 


348  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

After  reading  the  previous  outburst,  it  is  easy 
to  discern  why  the  bar  of  Beadle  county,  five  years 
later,  at  the  time  of  Elaine's  death,  chose  Sterling 
to  deliver  the  eulogy  in  their  behalf.  On  this  latter 
occasion,  he  said  in  part: 

He  is  dead!  That  great  heart,  that  mighty  intellect, 
that  generous  soul,  who,  for  more  than  thirty  years  has  been 
one  of  the  most  prominent  figures  in  American  history,  is  no 
more.  *  *  *  "God's  finger  touched  him  and  he  slept!"  Once 
more  the  greatest  nation  since  the  world  began  bows  its 
head  in  deep  humility  and  great  sorrow  in  the  presence  of 
the  Divine  mystery,  the  mystery  of  mortal  dissolution  and 
human  death;  while  the  people  of  the  whole  civilized  world 
pay  respectful  tribute  to  the  worth  and  genius  of  the  great 
departed. 

***** 

Sleep  on,  proud  spirit,  'tis  well  thou  art  at  rest;  no  more 
shall  thy  royal  pride  be  wounded  by  the  shafts  of  envy  and 
malice;  never  again  shall  thy  great  heart  be  torn  with  the 
fierce  and  bitter  contentions  of  the  busy  life  thou  hast  lead! 
Peace  has  come,  at  last,  to  thine  indomitable  and  unconquer- 
able spirit,  which  no  obstacle  could  appall,  no  misfortune 
disturb,  no  defeat  intimidate,  no  calamity  subdue.  Ended  are 
thy  conflicts,  thy  triumphs  and  thy  defeats.  Silent  the  magic 
voice  that  never  sounded  a  retreat,  or  uttered  one  complaint 
against  the  malignant  fates  that  wrecked  the  hopes  and 
ambitions  of  a  life  time.  Into  the  shadows  of  the  deep  and 
insoluble  mystery,  thy  heroic  spirit  has  taken  its  flight, 
leaving  as  a  rich  legacy  the  heritage  of  a  life  well  spent. 


Speaking  at  the  dedication  of  the  South  Dakota 
building  at  the  World's  fair  in  Chicago  in  1893,  he 
said  in  part: 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  349 

In  this  brief  period  of  time,  scarcely  the  duration  of  a 
heart-beat  in  the  life  of  this  venerable  old  world,  the  desert 
and  morass,  as  if  by  the  touch  of  a  magic  wand,  have  sunk 
into  the  bowels  of  the  earth;  and  in  its  place,  by  the  shores 
of  yonder  inland  sea,  ever  murmuring  in  loud  or  gentle 
accents  its  song  of  eternity,  has  arisen  a  city  more  white 
and  beautiful  and  fair  than  the  human  mind  had  ever  thought 
to  see  in  all  its  wildest  dreams,  this  side  of  the  pearly  gates 
of  heaven;  a  city  whose  graceful,  winding  rivers  seem  to 
have  caught  their  hues  from  the  skies  which  bend  over  them ; 
whose  sparkling  fountains  vie  in  beauty  with  the  rainbow; 
whose  rose  gardens  scent  the  air  with  sweetest  perfume,  and 
whose  golden-tipped  towers  and  minarets,  kissed  by  the  warm 
rays  of  the  summer  sun,  reflect  back  to  heaven  a  vision  of 
its  own  loveliness. 

Pillar  upon  pillar,  facade  upon  facade,  dome  upon  dome, 
column  upon  column,  rises  the  great  "White  City"  upon  the 
vision,  ornamented  by  frescoes  of  rarest  beauty  and  design; 
and  crowned  by  statuary  as  beautiful  as  a  sculptor's  dream; 
while  beyond,  and  skirting  all,  the  stately  peristyle  rears  its 
proud  front  in  silent  majesty;  and  the  noble  statue  of  the 
Republic  points  the  way  of  all  benighted  nations  to  a  higher 
and  happier  civilization. 


When  he  determined  to  leave  the  state  and  go  to 
Nebraska,  the  citizens  of  Huron  gave  him  and  his 
family  a  farewell  banquet  on  August  9,  1895.  In 
replying  to  one  of  the  toasts  that  had  been  given,  he 
said,  among  many  other  beautiful  things: 

As  I  listened  to  the  kind  and  flattering  words  of  my  old 
and  valued  friend,  who  has  just  taken  his  seat;  and,  as  the 
last  fourteen  years  of  my  life  spent  in  your  midst  passed 
in  quick  review  before  my  mind,  with  all  the  rapidity  of  a 
dream,  I  said  to  myself,  I  would  rather  have  deserved  those 
kind  words — and  I  know  I  have  not — and  have  won  the  true 


350  LITERATURE  OF  SOUTH  DAKOTA 

friendship  of  the  men  and  women  who  sit  at  this  board  to- 
night, than  to  have  accumulated,  during  the  years  of  my 
residence  among  you,  the  fortunes  of  a  king;  and  I  would 
rather  take  with  me  to  my  new  home,  in  the  chief  city  of 
yonder  sister  state,  the  sincere  and  honest  good-will  and  best 
wishes  of  my  South  Dakota  friends,  than  to  carry  away  with 

me  the  wealth  of  treasurers  and  of  mines. 

***** 

But  there  are  other,  and  yet  stronger  ties,  which  endear 
this  spot  to  me;  ties  almost  too  sacred  to  be  mentioned  out- 
side the  sanctuary  of  the  human  heart.  By  yonder  river  side 
stands  my  first  home,  of  sacred  memory;  the  home  to  which 
I  brought  the  bride  of  my  heart  and  love;  and  where  five 
of  the  happiest  years  of  my  life  have  been  spent  in  your 
society;  while,  as  I  turn  my  face  to  the  North,  I  see  in  my 
mind's  eye,  upon  her  broad  prairies,  a  plain  farm  house 
around  which  are  clustered  the  holiest,  saddest  memories  of 
my  life. 

Upon  your  soil  my  dead  are  buried,  and  in  your  hearts 
their  lives  are  enshrined.  Here  I  shall  leave  behind  me  those 
who  are  close  and  dear  to  me:  father,  kinsman,  friends.  Per- 
haps some  one  may  say:  Why  then  do  you  leave  all  this  to 
become  a  stranger  in  a  strange  land?  To  such  an  one  I 
answer:  Go  ask  the  birdling  why  it  leaves  its  mother's  nest 
to  fly  away  to  danger,  and  perhaps  to  death. 


It  seems  rather  strange  that  he  should  have 
made  this  implied  prediction,  and  should  then  have 
flown  away  to  his  own  early  death  in  a  comparative- 
ly strange  land,  only  two  years  later. 

When  he  and  his  family  arrived  in  Omaha,  the 
commercial  club  of  that  city  tendered  them  a  re- 
ception. Speaking  again  impromptu,  without 
manuscript  or  notes,  as  he  was  accustomed  to  doing, 


ORATORS  AND  ORATORY  351 

he  made  a  lengthy  address  in  which  he  said  in  part  : 
Some   one   has   said,   that  men   build   the   cities   of  the 
world,  but  that  the  Almighty  fixes  the  places  where  they 
shall  stand. 

By  the  side  of  yonder  mighty  river,  once  a  great  artery 
of  commerce,  and  even  now  a  strategic  boundary  line  of 
transportation  and  of  trade,  I  believe  He  has  planted  His  rod; 
and  that  here,  in  the  years  to  come,  shall  wealth  and  people 
and  commerce  congregate.  Standing  tonight  in  this  am- 
bitious young  city,  as  it  nestles  among  the  gently  sloping 
hills  of  the  fair  valley  of  the  Missouri,  with  its  countless 
acres  of  fertile  soil,  unequalled,  save  perhaps,  by  the  rich 
plains  of  Hungary,  or  the  fat  valley  of  the"  Nile;  and  looking 
off  to  the  westward,  upon  a  vast  sea  of  waving  green,  leaping 
beneath  the  warm  rays  of  a  summer  sun,  to  a  rich  and  early 
harvest,  unbroken  but  for  a  network  of  iron  bands,  which 
radiate  from  Omaha  like  the  silken  threads  of  a  spider's  web; 
and  looking  beyond  to  where  the  mountains  of  the  West,  with 
their  rich  treasure  of  coal,  oil,  silver  and  gold,  rear  their 
proud  crests  to  the  sky,  I  am  struck  with  the  belief  that 
nature  recognizes  your  pre-eminent  location,  and  that  here, 
in  the  next  quarter  of  a  century,  a  great  inland  city  will  be 
reared. 


INDEX 

A 

Abel,  E.  L 228 

Aisenbrey,  C.  J 229 

Aldrich,  I.  D 260 

Armstrong,  Mose  K 255 

Austin,  Henry  W 278 

B 

Bachelder,  G.  A 256 

Bagstad,  Anna  E 30-31 

Baily,  D.  R 257 

Bathurst,  J.  K 267 

Beaumont,  A.  E 236 

Beadle,  W.  H.  H 271-277 

Bennett,  Granville , 277 

Bennett,  Mark  M 260 

Biggar,  H.  Howard 36-37 

Bowen,  W.  S 260-262 

Boyles,  Kate  and  Virgil 246-247-248 

Branson,    0.    L .281-282-283 

Brigham,  Arthur  A 269 

Brown,  James  A.    277 

Brown,  Mortimer  C 14-15-17 

Burleigh,  Andrew  F 231 

Burleigh,  B.  W 233 

C 

Caldwell,  E.  W 277 

Carr,  Mrs.  Daisy  42-43-206 

Carr,   Robert  V 70-71-72-76-78 

Carruth,  Hayden 62 

Gearnach,  Conal   (Mary  Martin)    64-65 

Chamberlain,  Will    80-81-82-84-85-86-88 


354  INDEX 

Christophelsmeir,   Dr 258 

Clark,  Badger   50-51-55 

Clover,  Sam  T .58-59-61-62 

Conklin,  S.  J 257-260-281-294-295 

Cory,  F.  J 260 

Coates,  J.   W 268 

Crawford,  Coe  1 258-281-298-299-304 

Creed,  C.  H 241 

Cummins,   Mary    244 

Custer,  Gen.  Geo.  A 115 

D 

Danforth,   E.    S 260 

Davies,  James    244 

Davenport,  H.  J 271 

Day,  Charles  M 260 

De  Land,  Charles  E.  . 257-272 

Derome,  J.  A 260-268 

Dickinson,  Mrs.  Almira  J 96-97-98 

Dickinson,  R.  W 317 

Dillman,    Will    232 

Douglas,  Mrs 255 

Dunham,   N.  J * 257 

Durand,    Geo.   H 258 

Dye,   Eva    « 255 

E 

Egan,  Geo.  W 281-308-309-310-314-317 

Elliott,    Louise    249 

Ellis,  J.  S 255 

F 

Foster,  James   256 


INDEX  355 

G 

Garland,  Hamlin 104-105-245 

Gates,   Eleanor 255 

Gilman,  Stella   255 

Gilbert,  Mrs.  Nana 260 

Grabill,  E.  W 266-267-268 

Grantham,  E.  L 277 

Guhin,  M.  M 273 

H 

Hall,  James  Fremont   237 

Halladay,  J.  F 260 

Halstead,  Frank  M 266 

Hanson,  Jos.  Mills   112-113-114-115-116-124-245 

Harmon,  T.  A 281-320-321 

Hayes,  John  278 

Holmes,  C.  E 126-127-129-130-131-133-134-135 

Hoyt,  Cassie  L 273 

J 

Johnson,  Willis  E , 268-271 

Jones,  W.  Franklin 273-276-277 

K 

Kelley,  John  E 244 

Kemple,  R.  L 281-328-329 

Kerr,  Robert  F 256 

Kingsbury,  George 257 

Kittredge,  A.  B 264 

Knapp,  Fannie  E 232 

L 

Larsen,  C 269 

Lawton,  Charles  Bracy  138-139-140-148-254 

Lewis,  T.  H 265 

Linn,  Arthur   260 


356  INDEX 

Lillibridge,  Will 252-253 

Logan,  J.  D 266 

Longstaff ,  John  260 

Loucks,  H.  L 2,68 

Lorimer,  W.  B 301 

M 

Martin,  Mary   (Conal  Cearnach)    64-65 

McFarland,  James  G 281-334-335 

McKay 269 

McKusick,  Dean 272 

McMurty,  W.  J 235 

Melville,  A.  B 277 

Micheaux,  Oscar  255 

Moad,  Altha  and  Ethel 272 

Moody,  G.  C 277 

Murdy,  Dr.  R.  L 273 

N 

Nash,  N.  C 260 

Nicholson,  Thomas 269 

O 

O'Harra,  Cleophas   C 265 

Osbon,  O.  M '. 260-261 

P 

Perisho,  E.  C 265-271-281-340-341 

Petrie,  U.   S.  Marshall 248 

Pierce,  G.  A 255 

Price,  C.  H 277 

R 

Ransom,  Mrs.  Ida  P 278 

Ransom,  Frank  L 256-270 

Realf ,  James    . .  278 


INDEX  357 

Rivola,  Mrs.  Flora 150-151 

Robinson,  Doane 160-161-165-166-167-168-256-258-259-278 

Rodee,  H.  A 255 

Ronald,  W.  R .260 

Ross,  J.  A 270 

S 

Sanders,  J.  S 260 

Shannon,  Peter  C 277 

Shepard,  James  Henry 270 

Silsby,  George  227 

Smith,  George  M 257-261-272-276 

Smith,  Reverend  Mr 244 

St.  John,  C.  G 239 

Stewart,   Robert    278 

Sterling,   William   B 254-281-300-346-347-348 

Stratton,  Carrie  E.  . . .  -. 266 

Stubbins,  Thomas  A 255 

Sully,    Jack    247 

Swift,  Flora  M .235 

T 

Tatro,  May  Philips   170-171-172-175-177-254 

Thorns,   Dr.   Craig    269 

Thompson,  Dr.  T.  B 272-276-278 

Tinan,  Clate  260 

Todd,  Professor 265 

Tripp,  Bartlett 277 

Tull,  Jewel  Bothwell 250-251 

V 

Van   Benthuysen,    S.   D 270-277 

Van  Dalsem,  Henry  A 127-186-187-198 

Vessey,  R.  S 304 

Visher,  Professor   271 


358  INDEX 

W 

Weir,  Samuel 269 

Wells,  Rollin  J 202-203-207-209-213-268 

Wenzlaff,  Gustav  G 218-219-224-226 

Wentworth,  Frank  M 235 

White,   S.  E , 255 

White,   W 269 

Willey,  E.  H. 260-263 

Willis,  H.  E 272 

Wyeth,  N.  C 247 

Y 

Yule,  E.  B 260 

Young,    Clark   M 261-276 


CATALOG  OF 

SOUTH  DAKOTA  AUTHORS'  PUBLICATIONS 
IN  PRINT  JULY  1,  1916 

POETRY 
Clark,  Badger 

Sun  and  Saddle  Leather   (Richard  G.  Badger  Co., 

Boston)     $1.00 

Carr,  Robert  V. 

Cow  Boy  Lyrics   (W.  B.  Conkey  Co.,  Chicago) 1.00 

Dickinson,  Mrs.  Almira  J. 

Ocean   and   Other  Poems    (The  Author,   Pukwana, 

S.  D.)    1.00 

Garland,  Hamlin   (See  Prose  Writers  for  a  list  of  his 
novels) 

Hanson,  Joseph  Mills  (See  Prose  Writers  for  a  list  of 
his  prose  works) 
Frontier  Ballads   (A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.,  Chicago) 

Cloth  1.00 

Leather 1.50 

Holmes,  Charles  E. 

Birds  of  the  West  (Prose  — Educator  Supply  Co., 

'Mitchell,  S.  D.)    1.00 

Happy     Days     (The     Author,     Outlook     Building, 

Columbus,   0.)    . . .- 1.00 

From  Court  to  Court  (The  Author) 50 

Robinson,  Doane  (See  Prose  Writers) 

Van  Dalsem,  Henry  A. 

My  Soul  (Dr.  Friede  Van  Dalsem,  Huron,  S.  D.)..      .25 
Poems    of   the    Soul   and   Home    (Dr.    Friede   Van 
Dalsem,  Huron,  S.  D.)    1.00 


Wells,  Rollin  J. 

Pleasure  and  Pain  (Educator  Supply  Co.,  Mitchell, 

S.  D.)    1.00 

Hagar  (Educator  Supply  Co.,  Mitchell,  S.  D.)   1.00 

Wenzlaff,  Gustav  G. 

The  Mental  Man   (Prose — The   Charles  E.   Merrill 

Co.,  New  York) 1.00 

-  Sketches  and  Legends  of  the  West  (Prose — Capital 

Supply  Co.,  Pierre,  S.  D.) 75 

Dakota    Rhymes    (Educator    Supply   Co.,    Mitchell, 

S.  D.) 75 


PROSE  WRITERS 
Boyles,  Kate  and  Virgil  D. 

Langford  of  the  Three  Bars  (A  C.  McClurg  &  Co., 

Chicago)     1.50 

The  Homesteaders  (A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.,  Chicago)  1.50 
The  Spirit  Trail  (A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.,  Chicago) . .   1.50 
The    Hoosier    Volunteer    (A.    C.    McClurg    &    Co., 
Chicago)     1.35 

Crawford,  Coe  I. 

Memoirs  of  William  B.  Sterling  (Col.  Dick  Woods, 
Sioux  Falls,  S.  D.)    Free 

DeLand,  Charles  E. 

Errors  in  the  Trial  of  Jesus  (Richard  G.  Badger  Co., 
Boston)     1.00 

Dunham,  N.  J. 

History   of   Jerauld    County,    S.    D.    (The    Author, 

Mitchell,  S.  D.) 5.00 

History   of   Davison    County,    S.   D.    (The   Author, 
Mitchell,    S.    D.)    5.00 

Durand,  Geo.  H. 

Joseph    Ward,    of    Dakota     (College    Book    Store, 
Yankton,  S.  D.)   1.25 

Elliott,  Louise 

Six  Weeks  on  Horseback  Through  Yellowstone  Park 
(Rapid  City  Journal,  Rapid  City,  S.  D.) 1.50 

Ellis,  J.  S. 

The    Boy    From    Reifel's    Ranch    (Methodist   Book 
Concern,  155th  Ave.,  New  York)   1.00 


(Prose  Writers   Continued) 

Garland,  Hamlin 

Boy  Life  on  the  Prairie  (Harper  Bros.,  New  York)  1.50 
Captain  of  the  Gray  Horse  Troop  (Harper  Bros., 

New  York)    1.50 

Cavanaugh  (Harper  Bros.,  New  York)  1.50 

Eagle's  Heart  (D.  Appleton  &  Co.,  New  York) 1.50 

Her  Mountain  Lover  (The  Century,  New  York) 1.50 

Hesper  (Harper  Bros.,  New  York)    1.50 

Light  of  the  Star  (Harper  Bros.,  New  York) 1.50 

Long  Trail  (Harper  Bros.,  New  York) 1.25 

Main-Traveled  Roads,  Harper  Bros.,  New  York) .  . .  1.50 
Member  of  the  Third  House  (The  Century,  New 

York)    50 

Moccasin  Ranch  (Harper  Bros.,  New  York) 1.00 

Money  Magic   (Harper  Bros.,  New  York)    1.50 

Other   Main-Traveled    Roads    (Harper   Bros.,    New 

York)    1.50 

Prairie  Folks  (Harper  Bros.,  New  York)    1.50 

Rose  of  Butcher's  Cooley  (Harper  Bros.,  New  York)   1.50 

Shadow  World  (Harper  Bros.,  New  York) 1.35 

Spirit    of    Sweetwater    (Doubleday,    Page    &    Co., 

New  York)    50 

Trail  of  the  Gold  Seekers  (Harper  Bros.,  New  York)  1.50 
Tyranny  of  the  Dark  (Harper  Bros.,  New  York)  1.50 
Ulysses  S.  Grant  (Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  New 

York)    2.50 

Victor  Olnee's  Discipline  (Harper  Bros.,  New  York)  1.30 
Witch's  Gold  (Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  New  York) . .  1.50 

Guhin,  M.  M. 

Guhin    Number    Method    Chart    (Hub    City   School 
Supply  Co.,  Aberdeen,  S.  D.) 2.50 


(Prose  Writers  Continued.) 

Hanson,  Jos.  Mills 

With  Carrington  on  the  Bozeman  Road  (A.  C.  Mc- 
Clurg &  Co.,  Chicago)    1.50 

With  Sully  into  the   Sioux  Land    (A.   C.   McClurg 

and  Co.,  Chicago)    1.50 

Pilot  Knob  (The  Neale  Publishing  Co.,  New  York)  2.15 
The  Conquest  of  Missouri   (A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co., 

Chicago) 2.00 

Pageant  of  Yankton. 

Johnson,  Willis  E. 

Mathematical     Geography     (American     Book     Co., 

Chicago)     1.00 

South    Dakota,     a    Republic    of     Friends    (Capital 
Supply  Co.,  Pierre,  S.  D.)    1.00 

Jones,  W.  Franklin 

Principles  of  Education   (The  Macmillan  Co.,  New 

York)    1.10 

The    Child's    Own    Spelling   Book    (Capital    Supply 

Co.,  Pierre,  S.  D.) 25 

Handedness  in  Education  (Co-operative  University 
Book  Store,  Vermillion,  S.  D.)   25 

Kingsbury  and  Smith 

History  of  South  Dakota— Five  Vols.   (The  Clarke 

Pub.  Co.,  Chicago)    25.00 

Larsen,  C. 

Dairy  Technology  (John  Wiley  &  Son,  New  York) . .   1.50 
Principles   and   Practice   of   Butter   Making    (John 

Wiley  &  Son,  New  York)  1.50 

Exercises  in  Farm  Dairying   (John  Wiley  &   Son, 
New  York)    .   1.00 


(Prose  Writers  Continued.) 

Lillibridge,  Will 

Ben  Blair  (A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.,  Chicago)    1.50 

The    Dominant    Dollar    (A.    C.     McClurg    &    Co., 

Chicago)     1.50 

Quercus  Alba  (A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.,  Chicago) 50 

A  Breath  of  Prairie  (A.  C.  McClurg  &  Co.,  Chicago)  1.50 
Where    the    Trail    Divides     (Dood,    Mead    &    Co., 

New  York)    1.50 

The   Dissolving   Circle    (Dodd,   Mead   &    Co.,   New 

York)    1.50 

The  Quest  Eternal  (Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  New  York)  1.50 

McKay  (See  C.  Larsen) 

Moad  Sisters 

Moad  Script  Number  Primer (  Educator  Supply  Co., 
Mitchell,  S.  D.) '. . .     .50 

Micheaux,  Oscar 

The  Conquest  (The  Roycrofters,  East  Aurora,  N.  Y.)  1.50 
The    Forged    Note    (Western     Book    Supply     Co., 
Lincoln,   Neb.)    1.50 

Miles,  J.  M. 

How   to    Make    a    Transfer    (Capital    Supply    Co., 
Pierre,   S.   D.)    75 

Nicholson,  Thomas 

The  Necessity  for  the  Christian  College  (Methodist 
Book  Concern,  155th  Ave.,  New  York) 25 

O'Harra,  C.  C. 

Geology  of  the  Bad  Lands  (The  Author,  Rapid  City, 
S.  D.)   Free.     Send  lOc  for  postage. 

Perisho,  E.  C. 

Geography  of  South  Dakota  (Rand,  McNally  &  Co., 
Chicago)     35 


(Prose  Writers  Continued.) 

Robinson,  Doane 

Brief  History  of  South  Dakota  (American  Book  Co., 

Chicago)     1.00 

South  Dakota  Historical  Reports— Vols.  1,  3,  4,  5, 

6,  7,  (State  Hist.  Society,  Pierre,  S.  D.) 1.50 

South   Dakota   Historical   Reports— Vol.    II    (State 
Hist.  Society,  Pierre,  S.  D.) 3.00 

Ransom,  Ida  P. 

A    Book    of    Quotations     (Educator    Supply     Co., 
Mitchell,  S.  D.) 75 

Ransom,  Frank  L. 

Sunshine    State    (Educator    Supply    Co.,    Mitchell, 

S.  D.)    60 

Civil  Gov't.  of  S.  D.  and  the  U.  S.  (Educator  Supply 
Co.,  Mitchell,  S.  D.)    75 

Shepherd,  James  Henry 

Elements    of    Chemistry     (D.    C.    Heath    &    Co., 

New  York)    . 1.20 

A  Brief  Course  in  Chemistry  (D.  C.  Heath  &  Co., 

New  York)    80 

Inorganic  Chemistry  (D.  C.  Heath  &  Co.,  New  York)  1.20 
Organic    Chemistry    (D.    C.    Heath    &    Co.,    New 
York)    25 

Smith  and  Young 

History     and      Government      of      South      Dakota 
(American  Book  Co.,  Chicago   1.00 

Thorns,  Dr.  Craig 

The    Workingman's    Christ    (Dodd,    Mead    &    Co-., 

New  York)    1.35 

The    Bible     Message    to    Modern    Manhood     (The 
Griffith  &  Rowland  Press,  Philadelphia)    83 


(Prose  Writers  Continued.) 

Tull,  Jewell  Bothwell 

The  Winning  of  the  Bronze  Cross  (Educator  Supply 

Co.,    Mitchell,    S.    D.)     75 

Rob  Riley — The  Making  of  a  Boy  Scout  (Educator 
Supply  Co.,  Mitchell,  S.  D.) 75 

Van  Benthuysen,  S.  D. 

Farm  Accounting  (In  press) 

The  Sentence  Method  of  Touch  Typewriting  (The 

Bobbs-Merrill  Co.,  Indianapolis,  Ind.)    1.00 

White  (See  C.  Larsen) 

The  author  has  not  included  any  of  his  own  eight  books 
in  this  Catalog  of  Publications.  The  Publishers. 


SOME  OF  OUR  BEST  PUBLICATIONS 

By  Ida  P.  Ransom 
A  Book  of  Quotations $  .75 

By  C.  E.  Holmes 
Birds    of    the    West    1.00 

By  Jewell  Bothwell  Tull 

The  Winning  of  the  Bronze   Cross 75 

Rob  Riley — The  Making  of  a  Boy  Scout 75 

By  F.  L.  Ransom 

Civil  Gov't  of  South  Dakota  and  the  U.  S 75 

Sunshine  State  (A  history  of  S.  Dak.) 60 

By  Rollin  J.  Wells 

Pleasure  and  Pain   (A  book  of  poems)    1.00 

Hagar  (A  Dramatic  Production)   1.00 

By  O.  W.  Coursey 

History  and  Geography  of  the  Philippine  Islands 50 

The  Woman  With  a  Stone  Heart  (Historical  Novel)..   1.00 

The  Philippines  and  Filipinos    1.00 

Who's  Who  In  South  Dakota,  Vol.  1 1.00 

Who's  Who  In  South  Dakota,  Vol.  II 1.00 

Biography  of  Senator  Kittredge   1.00 

Biography  of  General  Beadle  1.00 

Literature  of  South  Dakota    .1.00 


